#and YES!! YOU SHOULD ABSOLUTELY GET THE SHIRT!!!
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
inseobts · 19 hours ago
Note
Hi could I request and ace x fem!reader where the reader is part of the wb pirates and they’re best friends. Ace has feelings for the reader and starts trying to confess but fails a lot or something? Like either his plan fails or the readers too oblivious or a mix of both but in the end they get together 😍. I love ur works thank u for opening ur requests again!!!!!!!
Burning Hearts
Tumblr media
portgas d. ace x fem!reader
A/N | sorry for the waittttttt, hope you'll like it!!
WORDS COUNT | 3.7k
TAGS | slow burn, fluff, friends to lovers, oblivious reader, confession fails
masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi
Tumblr media
You hang off the side of the Moby Dick, legs swinging, face tilted to the sun. Warm breeze, blue skies, no marines in sight, so a perfect day. You hum something under your breath, a song you don’t remember the name of.
“You’re gonna fall in if you lean any more.” a voice calls behind you.
“Will not.” you say, turning your head “Hi, Ace.”
Portgas D. Ace, second division commander, walking disaster, and your best friend, grins at you wide and easy. Too easy.
“Hi.” he says, sitting down beside you, a little closer than normal people would. Not that you notice.
You scoot to make space. He scoots too. The gap doesn’t grow.
“Thatch said we might have grilled fish later,” you say “If you don’t burn the grill again.”
“Hey! That was ONE TIME.”
“Twice.”
“Once.” he insists, turning pink.
You laugh “Sure, sure, Pyro.”
He pouts, arms crossed “You’re lucky you’re cute when you tease me.”
You blink “Huh?”
Ace freezes “I said rude. You’re rude when you tease me.”
“Sounded like ‘cute.’”
“Nope. You heard wrong. Sea got in your ears.”
You squint at him “We’re not even swimming.”
“Exactly. That’s how tricky the sea is.”
You shrug “Okay...”
You swing your legs again, and Ace watches, all soft and smiley.
Marco walks by. Stops. Stares at the two of you.
“You confessin’, hothead?” he asks with a smirk.
Ace’s head jerks up “WHAT?! NO. SHUT UP.”
You blink “Confessing what?”
“Nothing!” Ace blurts “He’s just being weird!”
Marco snorts “You’re the one acting like a lovesick seagull.”
“I will set your feathers on fire, Marco, I swear—”
You tilt your head “Ace? Are you okay?”
“I’M GREAT.” His voice cracks “Just. Great. Totally normal.”
You frown “You look sweaty.”
“I’m always sweaty! Fire powers!”
“You’re red too.” You poke his cheek “Are you sick?”
Ace swats your hand away, blushing furiously “NO. STOP TOUCHING ME.”
“But you always make me touch your forehead when you get headaches—”
“That’s DIFFERENT.” he shouts, hiding his face in his hands.
From the corner, Thatch cackles “Oh, he’s doomed.”
“I heard that!” Ace yells.
You blink again, totally lost “Doomed for what? What did you do?”
Ace glares at Thatch “Nothing! He just—he thinks I—”
Thatch grins “That you’re in love with your best friend?”
You laugh “With me? That’s dumb. Right, Ace?”
Ace opens his mouth. Closes it. Groans.
“I’m gonna jump into the sea.”
“Don’t.” you say, pulling him back by the sleeve “That’s no escape.”
Ace just slams his forehead onto your shoulder.
You pat his back gently “You’re so dramatic today.”
“Yeah,” he mumbles into your shirt “It’s your fault.”
Tumblr media
“Ace likes you.” Thatch says casually, like he’s talking about the weather.
You choke on your drink “What?”
Ace drops his fork “THATCH!”
“What?” Thatch shrugs “It’s true.”
You look at Ace. He’s frozen, mid-bite, eyes wide “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” he says, voice several pitches higher than normal “Totally fine. Normal. Good.”
“Your face is red again,” you say “Sunburn?”
“YES,” he blurts “Very strong sun today.”
You frown “Should I get aloe?”
“I—no—it’s okay—I’ll just—go die in the kitchen, thanks.” He grabs his tray and leaves at lightning speed.
Thatch winks at you “He’s suffering.”
You’re still confused “From what? Heatstroke?”
Later that day, Ace paces back and forth behind a barrel. You’re nearby, talking to Izo about your favorite snacks. Ace tries to look casual. He absolutely does not look casual.
“I’m gonna tell her...” he mutters “For real this time. I’ll just walk up, say the words. Easy.”
He steps out from behind the barrel. Then steps back. Then out. Then back again.
“Oi,” Marco calls, hovering above “Are you dancing or just losing your mind?”
“I’M THINKING!” Ace snaps.
“Thinking about what?”
Ace glares “None of your business.”
Marco grins “You’re thinking about Y/N. Again.”
“I WILL BURN THIS SHIP DOWN.”
“Please don’t!” Whitebeard yells from the upper deck.
Ace groans “Okay. No more waiting. I’m doing it now.”
You’re sitting alone this time, sharpening a knife you never actually use in fights. Ace walks up, all tense and weird and trying very hard to breathe normally.
“Hey.” he says, way too loudly.
You look up “Hi. You look like you’re going to pass out.”
He sits. Fidgets. Grabs a leaf off the floor and starts tearing it to shreds.
“Okay. So. I need to say something.”
“Is it bad?”
“No!” he says quickly “No. It’s… good. Kind of. Important. Maybe.”
You nod “Okay.”
“I like you.”
You smile “I like you too.”
“No. I mean. I LIKE like you.”
You blink “Like... you like that I’m not annoying?”
“I like that too, but that’s not—” he stops “Wait. You are annoying sometimes.”
You gasp “Rude!”
Ace panics “No no no! That’s not what I meant! I mean—I like all of you. Even the annoying parts. I want to—ugh—how do people do this?!”
You stare at him, tilting your head “Are you okay?”
He sighs “No. I mean, yes. Ugh. Never mind.”
“Ace,” you say softly, “you really look like you need a nap.”
Ace drops his face onto your lap “I need something. I don’t even know what anymore.”
You pat his hair “It’ll be okay. Just drink water.”
Ace groans into your thigh “Why are you like this?”
“Like what?”
“Sweet. And kind. And totally blind to everything around you.”
You giggle “I don't know... but... thanks?”
Ace sighs again. He’s going to need a better plan. A big one. A dramatic one. Because clearly, words aren’t working on you.
Tumblr media
Ace’s new plan is perfect. Step 1: Romantic dinner. Step 2: Confess feelings. Step 3: You finally notice how wildly in love he is. Step 4: Happily ever after.
He doesn't make it past step 2...
The sun is setting when you arrive, confused “Why does this look like a date?”
Ace panics already “It’s not. It’s—uh—just dinner. A… celebration.”
“For what?”
He freezes “…Friendship.”
You blink “You’re so weird sometimes.”
But you sit. The table is decorated with flowers. The food is actually not bad.
You smile “Did you cook this?”
“Some of it.”
You’re impressed “Wow. You didn’t even burn the rice.”
“I had help.” he mumbles.
You laugh “Still counts.”
Ace watches you eat, heart thumping like a drum. You're glowing in the candlelight. Smiling at him.
He can’t breathe. This was a terrible idea.
“You’ve been acting weird lately.” you say, picking at your food.
“No, I haven’t.”
“You made me dinner. You lit candles. You used flowers.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Rubs his face “Okay. Maybe I’ve been… a little weird.”
You tilt your head “Is this about that person you like?”
He chokes “W-What?”
“You know. That crush you’ve been avoiding talking about.”
“…What.”
“I’m not dumb, Ace. You’ve been flustered all week. You’re always zoning out and smiling at nothing.”
He stares at you. His whole brain is just a static noise now.
“You like someone,” you say proudly “I knew it.”
He tries to speak. Fails.
“Who is it?” you ask, leaning in with bright, curious eyes “Do I know them? Mmmh, it can't be from the crew, you're always with me... Are they on the crew?”
He swallows “Yeah.”
You gasp “Oh my god. It’s someone on the ship?!”
Ace nods slowly “...Yeah.”
You start thinking “Okay. Not Thatch. Gross. Not Marco—he’s basically your dad. Not Izo... he's too cute for you. Vista? Nah. Is it one of the nurses?”
Ace looks like he’s about to spontaneously combust.
“Oh!” you say, eyes wide “That cute girl who came aboard last week? The timing is perfect with when you started acting weirder.”
His soul leaves his body.
“No.” he says. Quiet. Broken.
You frown “Really? I thought she liked you. She gave you a peach.”
“Y/N.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re thinking too hard.”
You pause “...Wait.” You look at him. Eyes narrowing “Is it someone I know really well?”
He nods again.
You gasp “Oh my god, is it me?!”
Ace’s eyes widen. Hope flickers.
You stare at him “No, wait. That doesn’t make sense.”
The hope dies.
He blinks “…Right.”
Your heart kinda broke at this but you try your best to act normal... because why are you even thinking of your best friend in that way. And why is your own heart acting this weird now...
“Exactly!” you say “It can’t be me. That’d be crazy!”
He stares at you in silence. Just. Stares.
Then, slowly, with the tiniest, most pained smile “Yeah. Crazy.”
You beam “Anyway! I hope they like you back! You’re super cool when you’re not burning everything.”
Ace laughs once. It’s not a joyful laugh. It’s a “my soul has left my body” laugh.
“Thanks.” he says.
He will never emotionally recover from this dinner.
Tumblr media
It starts the morning after the dinner.
You wake up and remember his words “Yeah. It’s someone you know really well.”
You said, “It can’t be me.”
He said, “Yeah. Crazy.”
He smiled. A really sad smile.
Your chest does that thing again, just as during his confession. Not pain. Not joy. Something in between. Weird. Annoying. Uncomfortable. Like… pressure.
You shake it off and go find Ace. But Ace isn’t there. And he’s always there.
You try again the next day. You go to the deck where he usually naps. No Ace.
Then the kitchen. No Ace.
Training area. No Ace.
You find Thatch instead “Hey, you seen Ace?”
Thatch raises an eyebrow “Not lately. Why? Missing him?”
You snort “No. I mean—he’s my friend. That’s all.”
“Uh-huh.” He sips his drink and smirks “Totally normal to look that panicked over a friend.”
“I’m not panicking.” You absolutely are.
You start acting weird. You can’t help it.
Your heart keeps doing that tight, twisty thing when you think about him being with someone else. About him smiling at someone else like he smiles at you.
You hate it. But you don’t get it.
He’s your best friend. Why would it bother you?
...Unless it means something.
No. No no no.
Impossible.
You avoid him instead. If he wants space to be with his crush, then fine. You’ll give it to him.
Even if your heart stings every time you think about it.
Meanwhile…
Ace is dying.
You haven’t looked at him in three days. Haven’t sat beside him at meals. Haven’t made any dumb jokes. No hair ruffling. No teasing.
Nothing.
And it hurts.
He walks past you one afternoon. You don’t even say hi. You turn around and start talking to someone else.
He nearly combusts on the spot.
“What did you do?” Izo asks that night, watching him stare into the sea like it insulted his family.
“I don’t know...” Ace mutters “I think I broke her.”
Marco crosses his arms “Or maybe she’s just finally realizing she likes you back.”
Ace throws his head back and groans “No, she doesn’t. She thinks I like someone else. She thinks it’s not her. Now she’s avoiding me and it’s driving me insane.”
“Why didn't you tell her the truth?”
“I tried. She guessed wrong, and I just… gave up. I'm so tired.”
Thatch chuckle “This is what happens when two emotionally stunted people fall for each other.”
“Shut UP. She doesn't like me.”
You’re sitting on the edge of the ship at night. Alone. Arms around your knees. Watching the stars.
You hear footsteps behind you. You don’t look.
Then you hear his voice. Quiet “You hate me now or something?”
Your stomach flips “No. Of course not.”
He sits beside you. Not too close. Not like before. It makes your chest ache again.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” he says.
“I thought you were avoiding me.”
“I was giving you space.”
“Why would I need space. I was giving you space. So you could be with the person you like.”
Silence.
You can feel his eyes on you.
“I don’t want to be with anyone else.” he says softly.
Your heart skips.
Silence... heavy.
“I miss you.” he says. Quiet. Honest.
“Even if you’re just sitting next to me, not talking. I miss that too.”
Your throat tightens “I miss you too.”
He’s so close now. Just inches away. You could reach out. You want to.
But you don’t. You don’t even know why your chest is doing all these weird things. You’re not ready to look too closely.
So instead, you whisper, “Let’s not be weird anymore.”
He laughs soft and tired “Deal.”
Tumblr media
After your awkward little emotional spiral under the stars, you and Ace go back to normal.
Well... your version of normal.
You laugh with him again. Sit next to him. Tease him like always. But now you also spend most of your free time watching him from the corner of your eye, waiting.
Waiting to see her. The mystery girl. The one he likes.
You’re subtle (you think).
“Hey, Ace,” you say casually one day, spinning your fork at lunch, “you ever talk to that nurse again? The cute one?”
He blinks “...What?”
“Y’know. The one who gave you a peach.”
He makes a face “Oh. No, not really.”
You nod “Right. Not her, then.”
He squints “Why do you sound like a detective?”
“I... don’t.” You absolutely do.
You try again later.
“Thatch said you’ve been spending time with someone. Is that true?”
Ace snorts “Thatch says a lot of things.”
“So it’s not true?”
He shrugs “Not really.”
You bite your lip “Right.”
But that doesn’t help. You start watching harder. Every person he laughs with, you feel this little sting in your chest. Every smile that isn’t toward you, it hurts. And the worst part is:
You get it now.
You like him. You really like him. Not just the “best friend” way. The kind of like where your heart flips when he laughs, and your hands burn when he touches you. The kind of like that hurts.
And the one thing you know for sure is: he doesn’t feel the same.
Because he already likes someone else.
And it’s not you.
You think you’ve figured it out.
You see him talking to one of the new crew members, laughing, relaxed, standing close. You’ve never seen him look at you like that.
And something in you just… breaks.
You disappear that afternoon.
No big announcement. No drama. You just quietly take a little boat and row out to a quiet rock near the ship. One Ace took you to once, when you needed air. It’s far enough that nobody can hear you cry.
Because you are crying.
You sit there, legs pulled in, arms wrapped around yourself, eyes red and stinging.
And no matter how hard you try, the thought keeps coming back:
Why couldn’t it be me?
Why not the person who’s been by his side all this time?
Why not you?
Back on the ship:
“Where’s Y/N?” “Gone for a bit.” “She looked really off today.” “Think she's sick?” “No.” “…Think it’s about Ace?”
Nobody says it out loud, but the silence says enough.
Marco sighs “Should someone check on her?”
“Not me,” Thatch mutters “She looked like she’d bite if anyone came near.”
“I’ll go.” says a voice behind them.
Ace.
You don’t hear him until he’s already climbing onto the rock behind you.
“Hey.”
You stiffen. Don’t look at him.
“Everyone’s freaking out,” he says, voice soft “Are you okay?”
You nod. But your eyes are still full of tears, and your throat hurts, and your chest feels like it’s cracking open.
He sits beside you, close but careful.
You try to wipe your eyes without him noticing, but he sees. Of course he does.
“Hey.” His voice changes in a softer and worried way “You’re crying.”
You press your face into your arm.
He leans in, panicking a little “Did something happen? Did someone say something?”
You shake your head. You’re breathing hard now, chest heaving.
“Y/N,” he says gently, “please tell me what’s wrong.”
Your voice breaks when you finally speak “…Why can’t you like me?”
Ace freezes “…What?”
You still don’t look at him. You just stare at the water, tears falling “Why couldn’t it be me? What’s wrong with me?”
“Wait, wait—what are you talking about?” His voice is shaking.
“You like someone,” you whisper “I get it. You told me. It’s not me. That’s fine. I’m fine. I just… I don’t understand.” You sniff “Why not me?”
Ace is absolutely frozen in place. His brain has completely shut down.
“You think—” He stops “You think I don’t like you?”
You finally glance at him, eyes full of tears “You said it wasn’t me. At dinner. You said it was crazy.”
Ace stares. Then groans “Y/N...”
“What?”
He covers his face with both hands “I said it was crazy because you said it couldn’t be you and I was too tired to argue.”
You blink “So…”
“I like you.” He says it so fast he almost chokes on it “I have this whole time. And no, I don't mean it like e friend as you thought many and maaaany times....”
You stare “What?”
He turns to you, cheeks red, eyes wide “It’s you. It’s always been you. You freaking idiot.”
“…Oh.”
He looks like he might cry now too “You really thought I didn’t want you?”
You nod.
He groans again “We’re so dumb.”
You both laugh, broken laughs between sniffles.
Then, carefully, he touches your hand “I don’t want anyone else, Y/N.”
“…Me neither,” you whisper “I mean... I want you. Not anyone else.”
He squeezes your hand.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks.
You nod.
You’re still crying. Ace is still blushing.
Your hands are still tangled together.
There’s silence now. But the good kind.
Your heart is pounding so loud you can barely hear the waves anymore.
He leans in, slow and unsure, eyes flicking to your lips, then back to your eyes “Still okay?” he asks softly.
You nod.
He waits a second longer. Like he doesn’t believe it’s real. Then he closes the gap.
And he kisses you.
It’s not rough or messy, just soft and full of everything he’s held in for way too long. Like he’s scared he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone. Like he’s trying to tell you everything he never managed to say.
Your hands move instinctively to his shirt, to his neck. You don’t even think. You just feel.
And when you pull away, just a little, Ace exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. Like he’s finally, finally free.
He rests his forehead against yours and laughs under his breath. It’s shaky “Can’t believe you were so oblivious all this time…”
You laugh too. Still teary, but smiling now “Sorry…”
“You can’t even imagine how many times I tried to confess,” he mutters, almost to himself “I started to give up, even…”
You go quiet again. Then whisper, “I could only realize my feelings once I started picturing you with someone else…”
That makes him flinch “Ouch.”
“I hated it,” you admit “It was like someone shoved a knife in my chest and twisted it around every time I saw you smiling at someone else.”
His face softens. He cups your cheek, thumb brushing your skin “You don’t have to feel that again. Okay?”
You nod.
Then you pause “...Unless you do something really stupid. Like flirt with a nurse again.”
He groans “I didn’t even want the peach... Thatch made me take it!”
You smile into another kiss, this one lighter, more playful.
And just like that, everything’s different. And somehow exactly the same.
But now you know.
Tumblr media
You and Ace stay on that rock a little longer. Just sitting. Smiling. Quietly touching hands like it’s some big secret now.
You’ve both stopped crying, but your eyes are still a little red.
And neither of you says it, but you don’t want to go back to the ship yet.
Because once you do…
They’ll know.
They always know.
Still, eventually, Ace sighs “We should go, they were worried about you.”
“Yeah.” you say. But don’t move.
“…At the same time,” he adds, wincing a little “Otherwise they’ll think something happened.”
You raise an eyebrow “Something did happen.”
“Yeah, but I’d like to keep breathing, thank you. Thatch will explode if he finds out before we even step off the boat.”
You laugh “Okay. Together, then.”
You both climb back in the little rowboat and paddle toward the Moby Dick, pretending not to look at each other too much. You fail miserably.
The moment your feet enters...
SILENCE.
Every eye is on you.
Marco is leaning against the rail with his arms crossed, giving you that smug, all-knowing look.
Izo is peeking from behind a column, vibrating.
Thatch has one brow raised, mid-bite of a sandwich. He doesn’t even blink. Just stares.
Even Whitebeard’s laugh stops echoing.
You and Ace freeze like two kids caught sneaking snacks at midnight.
Thatch is the first to move.
He stands up. Slowly. Grinning.
“Sooooooo…”
His eyes go to Ace. Then to you. Then to your joined hands.
You both look down at the same time and FLING them apart like they’re on fire.
Ace: “It’s—!! I mean—we were just—!!”
You: “It’s not what it looks like!!”
Also you: Why am I lying?! IT’S EXACTLY WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE.
There’s a loud gasp. Izo dramatically fans himself.
Marco just sighs, smirking “Finally.”
Thatch HOWLS with laughter “I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU THIS WOULD HAPPEN!”
You bury your face in your hands. Ace looks like he might jump off the ship.
“You guys SUCK.” he mutters.
“We literally waited months for this,” Marco says calmly “Don’t deny us the moment.”
You groan.
Whitebeard, from his throne, just chuckles “Yoi yoi… took you long enough, brats.”
And now the whole crew is losing it laughing, teasing, throwing playful jabs.
Someone throws confetti (you're not even going to ask where that came from).
Thatch: “How was the kiss? Was it good? Did he finally stop being awkward?!” Ace: “SHUT. UP.” You: melting into the floor
Marco: “So… are you official now?” Izo: “Are we going to plan a party??” Ace: “NO—WAIT—WE HAVEN’T EVEN TALKED ABOUT THAT—” You: “We haven’t even held hands for a full minute!!”
Thatch: “Oh my god. You’re both disasters.”
Later that night, when it’s finally quiet again, you sit beside Ace on the upper deck, watching the stars.
He nudges your shoulder “Already regretting the kiss?”
You smile “Only that I didn’t do it first.”
His ears go red again.
“…You’re still cute when you blush.” you add.
“Don’t tell the crew that.” he grumbles, hiding his face.
You lean closer “Too late. They definitely already know.”
280 notes · View notes
joons-cinnamon-bun · 2 days ago
Text
A series of unfortunate Dates -2-
Tumblr media
Summary: Fate has never been a determining factor in Namjoon’s life. Destiny, if it existed at all, seemed to have a sick sense of humor, and his horoscope barely got it right half the time. In fact, the only otherworldly forces Namjoon puts any stock in are his mother’s divine meddling…and his unlucky dating streak. So when she signs him up for what can only be described as a modern, barely legal, arranged marriage agency operating somewhere out of Seoul, he’s not even surprised. Resigned? Yes. Hopeful? Not in the slightest. But then he meets you. The girl from the bus, many months ago. The one who felt like a missing piece from his story, but slipping away through the fates' threads. And through what can only be described as a bizarre serries of coincidences (or, as your mother would say, divine intervention), you’re here. Wearing a pink dress. Wondering if maybe, just maybe…soulmates do exist. Namjoon doesn’t believe in fate. And maybe, just maybe—he could believe in you. word count: almost 12K Genre: Borderline rom-com with an arranged marriage kick. Matchmaking. Fluff. Smut. Warnings: Explicit smut scene. oral sex. fluffy sex. the author pokes a lil fun at mysticism masterlist
taglist: @uniquetravelerone @sexytholland @codeinebelle @annyeongbitch @rpwprpwprpwprw @goldietigers294 @amarawayne @oneshallsmile @ktownshizzle @jimineepaboya @lili-spots @themwordsblog @jub-jub @tryingtotwice @callmenoona25 @angellekookie
Namjoon’s lips drag into a slow smile. His heart ticks up when he catches your eyes drop to his lips, like you can’t help it. Like you’re thinking about it—about him—in that very same way he’s been thinking about you all night.
He normally isn't one to chuck up moments of his life to ‘destiny’ or ‘stars’ or even on his karmic balance. In fact he is a proven rationalist. But there’s something about this moment—about you—that makes him want to believe in all of it. In missed connections. In soulmates. In the unspoken glances on the bus. In ironing his shirt for a first date. In the way your fingers lingered a bit too long when he lead you to the table. In the way your laugh cracked open the night like a lighter held to wax.
In the way you step just slightly closer to him, and he doesn’t pull away.
“No,” he says finally, voice low, steady. “Not the last time I checked.”
You nod, once, and it’s all the invitation he needs to let his heart figure-four leg lock his brain into submission. No more pretending this is just a good match on paper, or just a lucky coincidence orchestrated by the universe and meddling parents.
“So…” you start, barely louder than the rustle of wind through the leaves. You’re standing at the corner you’re supposed to turn down to get home—but your feet don’t move. Neither do his. “I know this wasn’t exactly in the matchmaking procedure, but—”
He tilts his head, curious. Heart absolutely stupid in his chest.
“There’s this exhibit down the block.” You offer, pointing with your chin like he can see it. “They’re doing a late-night show. Local artists. A light installation from what I gathered, glow-in-the-dark stuff… All the makings of a very respectable second date.”
His smile grows, slow and bright and so full of genuine delight, it feels like it might light up the sidewalk.
“Lead the way,” he says, voice warm—tinged with that rare, boyish kind of joy that slips out when he’s caught off guard by something good. Really good.
And maybe that’s what this is. Not just a good night, or a good date. But something good.
A second chance to fix the unbalance that was left in the universe that day when you returned his umbrella on the bus; when he wasn’t certain if he should speak, or follow or do anything beyond watch you disappear into the crowd with a polite smile and his heart held loosely on his sleeve.
Back then, he’d told himself it was fine. That not everything unresolved needed resolution. That some people are meant to be passing moments, not permanent fixtures. But now—walking beside you as your hands swing just close enough to brush—he wonders if that logic was just fear, dressed up as pragmatism.
Because here you are. In front of him again, months and lifetimes later, offering him not closure, but possibility. Like destiny is adamant not to let him screw this up again.
You turn before he can see your blooming smile, and he falls in step besides you like he’s done it for years, slipping an arm around your shoulders with something his mother might deem too forward. But he can’t quite bring himself to care.
Not when you’re practically sharing his warmth as you set off on another quiet street.
The gallery is only a few blocks down, tucked between a bookstore and a café that smells like burnt espresso even when its closed. The light from the entrance spills onto the sidewalk in soft waves—cool blue and lavender, gently shifting like reflections on water.
The entrance is marked only by a low-lit sign and a hand-painted poster peeling slightly at the edges. But Namjoon looks at it like it’s the Louvre.
The door softly chimes when he pushes it open, and you step into darkness punctuated only by the gentle glow of the installations. A corridor to the side, one that leads to a room with suspended lanterns pulsing in shades of pinks and oranges; each one swaying ever so slightly, casting rippling shadows across your faces. Your shoes echo against the polished concrete.
“Woah.” You slip away from his arm to brush a finger against one lantern—warm paper, almost like it’s humming against your fingertips. “It’s like a daydream.”
Namjoon lingers behind for a beat, something catching in his chest. The light pools across your shoulders, catches in your hair, glints off your cheeks as you move. You’re looking up, eyes wide, lashes tipped in gold—and he forgets, briefly, about the gallery, the installations, the rest of the world.
The only thing on his mind is that ridiculous manuscript he read many years ago about the red sting that tied fated souls together. It was cheesy, ridiculously syrupy and chucked full with cliches.
But now, even for someone who doesn’t believe in destiny, he sure as hell can feel it pulling taut between you.
He’s always scoffed at the idea before—chalked it up to folklore and sentiment. But there’s something about this moment, about you illuminated in all this soft, shifting light, that makes the whole myth feel less like fantasy and more like gravity. Not a string, exactly. But a weight. A pull. A line drawn from some unseen center straight through the quiet place behind his ribs.
Something about the way you tilt your chin up to see more of the ceiling, the way your fingers linger in the air even after the lantern sways back into place. Like you belong among the blinding lights, because they too, are trying to memorize the shape of wonder.
He should say something about light. About the meaning of the patterns painted on the lanterns. He should keep things easy.
But instead, it slips out—quietly, helplessly honest.
“You are.”
You glance over. “What?”
He blinks, half-embarrassed to have said it out loud. “I meant the room,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting down. “The whole thing. You were right. It’s like a daydream.” He pauses without meaning to, perhaps digging his grave a little deeper. “That’s what I meant.”
You watch him for a beat. Narrow your eyes. But you let it slide, lips curving with something softer than amusement as you walk deeper into the space.
Namjoon doesn’t follow right away.
He stays still, breathing through the sudden, aching swell beneath his ribs.
He’s always known how to be careful. Always kept his hope on a leash. He’s familiar with his own limits, with the way his heart learned to flinch before it could reach. The detachment wasn’t indifference—it was armor. It was survival. He was never scared of love itself, just what it asked of him. What it took when it left.
And right now—watching the way your silhouette slips through glowing strands of light, how you don’t even realize the effect you have just by being here—he feels it again.
That timeworn want.
That quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, this time he’ll be chosen back.
So now, with you…
He exhales, slow and steady, and lets his feet move. One step. Then another. He’s not sure where this goes, but he knows he wants to find out.
“Hey,” he says gently, catching up to you just as you part the curtain that leads into the next room—this one lit in a soft, underwater blue, where fiber optics ripple from the ceiling like kelp and stars and rain.
Fiber‐optic strands immediately brush around you like the a waterfall—thin, cool tendrils of light that tickle your cheeks and arms. You gasp, and he laughs softly, steadying you with one hand while he lightly brushes the sea of glowing fibers away from your faces with the other.
“They should really warn people.” You murmur, blinking through the light like you’ve just stepped into another universe.
“They kind of did,” Namjoon says, voice low and close. “There was a sign. You were too busy floating.”
You nudge him gently with your elbow, but you don’t step away. Neither does he.
This room is smaller, silence deeper—like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you and the hush of soft light. The strands pulse faintly, changing color every few seconds. Pale blue. Violets. Soft greens. It paints his skin in shifting hues, shadows brushing beneath his cheekbones, catching the warmth in his eyes.
“You know,” you say, tilting your head slightly toward him, “for someone who tried to backpedal out of a compliment five minutes ago, you’re surprisingly smooth when you’re not thinking about it.”
Namjoon smiles, but it’s the kind that flickers—bashful and unsure. “I think I just get clumsy when it matters.”
You study him for a beat. “This matters?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It does.”
And it’s stupid, maybe—it’s barely been a night, you’ve only just begun—but there’s something in the way he says it that lands like truth. No embellishment. No overthinking.
Just real.
Your breath slows.
You don’t say anything, not at first. You just reach out, fingers ghosting over his sleeve, the edge of his wrist, like you’re not sure what you’re doing until you’ve already done it.
Namjoon doesn’t move. But he looks at you like he might.
“I think…” you begin, voice quiet, almost shy, “...if you kissed me right now, I wouldn’t stop you.”
Namjoon exhales, the air knocked clean out of him. “Yeah?”
You nod. Just once.
He moves in, slow and careful, as if waiting for you to change your mind, letting the strands slowly fall back around you.
But you don’t pull away. Your chin just tips up, lips part just slightly, and his fingers lift, brushing a strand of glowing fiber from your cheek.
“Stay still,” he murmurs, voice low. Catching the strand between his fingertips, drawing it gently across your lips. You swallow around a pulse of heat.
His thumb brushes the filament against your lower lip. He holds it there, the delicate glow outlining his fingertip, and you nearly tremble under his touch. The whole universe sums up to hush and halo—to lights suspended between you, breath and body caught in the stretch of the undeniable certainty that feels almost too overwhelming for words.
You part your lips just slightly, and Namjoon stills. His eyes search yours, asking one last time. Offering you one last out.
But you don’t take it. You don’t want to.
So you close the gap—only a few centimeters, really—but it feels like a leap. Like a decision. And when your lips finally meet his, it’s soft, almost hesitant, like a step taken into the unknown.
Then he kisses you back.
Fuller. Warmer. His hand slipping to the curve of your jaw, anchoring you to him as the filament falls away, forgotten. His other arm wraps loosely around your waist, drawing you closer, and you feel it—his steadiness, his quiet restraint, the way he’s holding back just enough to be respectful, but not so much that you can’t feel how much he wants you.
The kiss deepens naturally with all it’s warmth and unhurried movements, the kind that tastes faintly of strawberry soju and a hundred things still unsaid. And when you melt into him, finger curling in his shirt, lips sweet and slow, he knows he can die happy.
The kind of kiss that steals the breath right from his lungs without asking.
When you finally pull back, it’s only by a breath. He doesn’t let go. His eyes open slowly, lashes low and heavy, and he searches your face with that same quiet attention he’s held all night—like you’re an answer he didn’t realize he had the question for.
“You good?” he asks, voice husky.
You nod. “Yeah. It’s just…”
You kiss him again.
Because how else do you say thank you for the way he’s looked at you all evening? How else do you say please, don’t stop without giving him every single part of your heart right here and then?
This one is softer. Briefer. But somehow deeper—like a secret passed from mouth to mouth, like a promise sealed not with words but with the way your hand finds his again and stays there.
Namjoon exhales against your lips, like maybe he wasn’t sure you’d come back, like maybe this second kiss is the one that undoes him. His forehead rests against yours and you feel his smile before you see it.
“Okay,” he says quietly, thumb brushing your jaw.
You laugh, quiet and breathless, the sound curling between you like another thread tying future, circumstances and intention together.
Namjoon leans in, just slightly—enough for your noses to brush, for his smile to press against your cheek like a whisper. You feel it in your chest, that dizzy, buoyant thing rising, rising, rising. Hope, maybe? Or something even more dangerous.
“Okay,” he says again, like he’s trying to ground himself. Like maybe saying it out loud will help him believe this isn’t some flickering, impossible dream. “That was… definitely not in the matchmaking brochure.”
You smile, still so close your breath warms his lips. “No, but if it were, I’d sign up again.”
He lets out a laugh that melts into a sigh, and you feel him shift—his arm still around your waist, holding you like you’re something fragile but already his. His thumb strokes gently at your back beneath his jacket, like he needs to remind himself he’s not hallucinating.
The gallery hums around you, quiet and alive. Blue and violet and gold light shimmers on the walls, on your skin, on the edges of your shared silence. Somewhere deeper in the room, the soft whir of a projector starts, casting delicate patterns that ripple across the floor like light on water.
Neither of you rushes to move.
Eventually, he tilts his head, voice quieter now. “So... third date?”
You tilt your head slightly. “Confident, are we?”
“I kissed you twice,” he says, grinning now. “That has to earn me something.”
You lean back just enough to see his face, to read the smile tucked into the corners of his mouth and the warmth simmering in his eyes
“Do I still get points for tteokbokki?” He continues, and you snort.
Your smile stretches helplessly, warmth rushing in from somewhere deep in your chest. “You get a lot of points for tteokbokki,” you murmur, letting your fingers play lightly with the lapel of his jacket still hanging on your shoulders. “And the soju. And the walk. And, well… everything else.”
Namjoon leans in just a bit closer, voice dipping. “So that’s a yes?”
You press your lips together, pretending to think. “Hmm. I don’t know…”
His brows rise, exaggerated mock offense already painting his features. “Wow. Tough crowd.”
You shrug, stepping back through the curtain of light. “Better keep up, then.”
And Namjoon follows—because of course he does—his fingers finding yours like it’s second nature now, like you were meant to be holding hands all along. The lights ripple over your skin as you walk deeper into the exhibit, casting moving constellations across your joined palms.
By the next room, Namjoon’s brain finally reconnects to the server—sparking back to life with enough clarity to remember that he’s supposed to be intelligent, and articulate, someone who can string a sentence together without being entirely distracted by the feeling of your lips on his.
He clears his throat softly, as if that might reset the system.
The next few displays are quieter, dimmer. The lights are cooler—crystalline, and almost sharp. Glass orbs suspended from the ceiling spinning, catching slivers of light and scattering them in fractured bursts across the floor. A projector room that had animations interacting with the walls themselves.
The final corridor is lit by candlelight—flames flickering in unison, guiding you back toward the real world. Outside, the night is deeper than before, colder, and the sky stirs quietly overhead.
Namjoon lifts his eyes towards the black night, bracing against the sudden gust of wind that blows out the few candles outside the exit.
“Was there a rain warning today?”
“Not that I remember of…” But just as the words leave your lips, the clouds open with a loud thunder. Rain comes down suddenly, soft at first, a gentle patter against the gallery’s doorway—but quickly growing in urgency, as if the sky itself can’t hold back any longer. You both freeze in the doorway, caught between the warm cocoon of the exhibit and the cool, unexpected downpour outside.
“Guess the night’s not done surprising us.” He sighs before shifting his gaze over at you. “No chance of you having an umbrella stuffed in that little bag of yours, huh?”
You laugh, breathless and a little wild. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head, fingers brushing back a strand of your hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you an Uber.”
You peer up at the night, cheeks flushed. “Isn’t your place close by?”
Namjoon pauses, rain splashing at his shoes. His gaze drifts to the street, then back to you—umbrella-less and close to being drenched.
“My place?” He echoes, voice soft, quickly picking up on the implications. “It’s not far. Maybe five minutes if we run.”
“I—” You stop, “If it’s okay. I don’t want to overstep.” You glance back at the rain slowly puddling the street. “Just to borrow an umbrella…”
He blinks, then smiles—slow and warm. “Borrow an umbrella? I was thinking more along the lines of borrowing your evening.”
You frown, half-smile tugging at your lips. “That sounds… generous.”
He shrugs, eyes sparkling with that same undeniable allure, before he pulls you close, lifting his jacket off your shoulders carefully and sheltering you beneath it. “Come on,” he says, tipping it your way. “Let’s run.”
His jacket settles over your shoulders, the fabric cold against your skin. You slip an arm into a sleeve, the other one around his waist, the collar brushing your neck. He drops his own shoulders under the rest of the fabric, creating a makeshift canopy against the downpour.
“Ready?”
You nod, heart fluttering. “Ready.”
And you dash down the street—feet splashing through fresh puddles, laughter tangled between ragged breaths. The rain pelts the makeshift covering, a thunderous applause that only draws you closer.
Five minutes later, you skid to a stop in front of a tall building, breaths visible in the misty air. He lifts the jacket just enough for you to slip inside first, then follows, shielding you both as he closes the building door against the storm.
The hallway light flickers to light when you move, soft and golden. He peels the wet outer layer from your shoulders with gentle fingers, revealing the pink dress damp at the hem. “Come on,” he murmurs, leading you toward the elevator, completely unbothered by the water he’s trailing behind on the tiled floor.
The elevator dings open, its doors sliding apart with a soft hum. You step inside first, the warmth of the building pressing against your chilled skin. Namjoon follows, pressing the button for the last floor.
“You live in the penthouse?” you ask, brows raised.
He glances at you, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. “Technically, yes. But it sounds more impressive than it is.” He says, scratching the back of his neck like it’s a little embarrassing. “Just means I don’t have anyone stomping around above me.”
You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “So modest.”
He laughs under his breath. “I mean, it’s no castle.
You huff a laugh. “Still sounds like you’re trying to charm me.”
He leans a little closer, voice low. “Is it working?”
You don’t answer—just smile and look forward again, heart doing its own reckless thing inside your chest. And beside you, Namjoon tries not to grin too obviously, as if you haven’t both already completely given yourselves away.
The elevator hums upward, slow and steady, carrying you somewhere high above Seoul. The lights overhead casting a warm glow across his face—his wet hair slightly mussed, his shirt clinging just a little at the collar. You catch yourself staring and look away too late, heat blooming in your cheeks.
He notices, of course. But he doesn’t say anything. Just slides his hand gently back into yours, thumb brushing your knuckles.
When the doors open, the hallway is quiet, carpeted, softly lit. He leads you a few steps down, then unlocks a wide modern looking wooden door.
Inside, his apartment opens up into warm tones and wide windows—a soft, inviting space that smells faintly of cedar wood and something like bergamot. Books line tall shelves, and for some reason they frame his couch too, where a few shirts are strewn across the back of it. A turntable sits quietly in the corner, covered in plants, and a half-used mug of something forgotten rests on the kitchen counter.
The walls decorated in paintings that range from minimalism to neoclassicism.
Namjoon toes off his shoes by the door, gently guiding yours next to them before stepping further in. He moves through the space like someone used to solitude—quiet, unhurried, but there’s a steadiness in the way he turns on a few low lamps, casting the room in amber glow. It’s not the sterile kind of clean. It’s thoughtful. Lived-in in a way that feels intentional, not lonely.
“I’ll get you some dry clothes.”
“Thank you.”
You stand still for a moment, taking it all in.
Books by the armrest, manuscripts marked with reds and blues, a blanket draped over the side like it’s been used recently. Records leaning against the console—Miles Davis, Chet Baker, Bon Iver, something obscure in Japanese. There’s another sweater thrown over the back of a chair, and a framed photo tucked beside the speaker: Namjoon with someone older, maybe his father, both of them mid-laugh.
Namjoon reappears with a soft, oversized sweatshirt slung over one arm and a pair of black joggers folded neatly in his hand. “They might be big, but they’re warm.” He says, holding them out to you.
You take them, fingers grazing his. “I don’t mind big.”
His smile tugs a little wider, but he doesn’t comment—just tips his head toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s just down the hall. First door on the right.”
You follow his direction, padding down the hall as your bare feet sink lightly into the carpet. The bathroom is like the rest of the place; stone-toned, curated and clean, with eucalyptus hanging from the shower head. A candle, nearly burned to the end, flickers faintly beside the sink.
You change quickly, slipping into his clothes. The sweatshirt hangs loosely on you, the sleeves swallowing your hands and you have to double tie the joggers. They smell like clean laundry, rain and him.
When you return, Namjoon’s already in the kitchen, barefoot, pouring hot water into two mugs. He looks up when he hears you, and something in his face shifts—fond, quiet, maybe a little undone.
“You look comfortable,” he says, handing you a mug. It’s warm between your palms, chamomile and something faintly floral.
“I am.” You glance down at yourself. “I might not give this back.”
He chuckles. “I’ll allow it. As long as I get visitation rights.”
You settle onto the couch, tugging your knees up beneath you, the oversized fabric pooling around you. Namjoon joins you, a little closer than necessary, his own mug cradled between his palms. For a moment, there’s only the soft clink of ceramic, the patter of rain still against the windows, and the rustle of his breathing beside you.
Then—
“I haven’t brought anyone here in a long time,” he says, not quite looking at you.
You glance at him. “No?”
He shakes his head. “Not because I didn’t want to. Just…didn’t feel right.”
His voice is low, almost cautious, like he’s not sure if it’s too soon to say something like that—but says it anyway. And it hangs there, soft and honest, between the two of you.
You study him, the gentle slope of his shoulder where it meets the couch, the tension he’s clearly trying to mask in the line of his jaw.
“Why now?” you ask quietly.
Namjoon’s thumb runs slow circles along the edge of his mug. He exhales through his nose. “Because tonight felt… different.” He pauses, searching for the right words. “For some reason, it’s easy with you. You don’t ask for anything I wasn’t already offering. It just feels like you see me. Not the vision I sometimes hand out.”
You blink at that, unexpectedly moved. Because you know what he means. What it feels like to be seen and not simply looked at. That’s exactly what he does to you.
“I didn’t know I was waiting for that,” he adds, finally meeting your eyes. “But I think I was…ever since the umbrella scene.”
And you don’t know what kind of Fate or Moirai or Kismet is working in your favor. Or if its just two equally stubborn people, avoiding love, who finally decided to stop running.
Without quite meaning to, you reach out—resting your hand lightly over his, fingers curling around the edge of his mug. It’s a small touch, but it roots something between you.
His hand turns instinctively beneath yours, palm meeting palm, like it’s been waiting.
Namjoon doesn’t speak right away—just watches your fingers fit with his, the quiet press of skin to skin. There’s no urgency in the gesture, no need to rush past it. Just a kind of stillness. A shared breath.
Then he says, quietly, “I don’t really believe in fate.”
You nod, not pulling away. “Me neither.”
“But this feels like something,” he murmurs, glancing down where your hands rest between you. “Doesn’t it?”
You don’t answer right away. You just hold his gaze. Let it say everything your words can’t yet touch.
And when you do speak, it’s not a confession. Not a grand declaration. Just simple, quiet truth.
“Yes.”
Namjoon exhales like that was what he’d been holding out for. Like your agreement unlocks something in him.
He shifts, not closer—but deeper, and you move with an impulse, free hand cradling the side of his face, palm meeting the warmth of his cheek, your thumb grazing just beneath his eye. The soft stubble along his jaw, the way he leans into your touch, like it means something—it’s all disarmingly intimate, like a kind of closeness that’s been patiently waiting in the quiet between your words.
Namjoon doesn’t rush it. He just closes his eyes for a beat, like he’s memorizing the weight of your hand, the safety of this moment.
When he opens them again, they’re softer. Clearer. Lit with something that looks a lot like wonder.
His voice is barely above a whisper. “If I kiss you again, I won’t want to stop.”
And your heart stumbles, caught near the fear and the ache of wanting the same.
“Kiss me.”
His breath stutters—just for a second—and then he’s closing the space between you. The kiss is slower this time, surer. Less searching, more knowing. Your mugs forgotten somewhere on the table. Your fingers slip into his hair, nails dragging gently across his scalp, and his hand finds your waist like its meant to rest there. To pull you closer.
There's no background music. No dramatics. No closeups. Just the rain.
Rain on the windows. The tick of the clock. The hush of two people finally arriving at the same place at the same time.
The kiss deepens slowly—like it’s unfolding, not erupting. Like it’s been waiting in the wings, rehearsed in glances and half-smiles and every soft pause between you.
Namjoon tilts his head, just slightly, adjusting the angle, the pressure, the pace. One of his hands slips from your waist to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, anchoring you. His other arm is a quiet weight around you, steady and sure.
You shift, instinctively, knees brushing his thigh, the fabric of his joggers warm against your skin. The couch creaks softly beneath you when you move to straddle his lap—slowly, carefully—like you're not quite sure if it's boldness or gravity pulling you there. Namjoon doesn't stop you. If anything, his hands guide you, one resting at the curve of your hip now, grounding you against him.
The kiss never breaks. It just changes, to fuller, to deeper, bracing at the edge of something molten that tugs at the space between wanting and having. The kind of heat that grows steady, reverently, with no call to rush.
Your fingers trail from his hair to the sides of his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones, memorizing him with every soft drag. Namjoon’s breathing shakes slightly against your mouth, and you feel it when he exhales, his chest rising to meet yours.
When your lips part, it’s only to rest your forehead against his, breath shared in the quiet lull that follows.
He’s the first to speak, voice low, almost rasped. “Okay. Yeah. I definitely don’t want to stop.”
You smile, slow and flushed, heart tumbling in your chest. “Then don’t.”
His eyes flicker open—dark and shining and impossibly soft.
And he kisses you again.
A little hotter. A little bolder. Like he’s memorizing the way you taste and is desperate to have it all to himself. His hands find your hips fully, holding you in place, anchoring you with all the reverence of someone who doesn’t take intimacy lightly.
You shift in his lap, just a little, just enough to feel the way he tightens his grip, more certain than anyone has ever held you before. Like he’s been holding back long enough and now, finally, he’s been given both permission and freedom.
Your hands move again, dragging slowly down the back of his neck, thumbs brushing his pulse point, feeling the way it kicks up beneath your touch. He groans softly against your mouth, the sound low and almost surprised, like maybe he hadn’t expected the way you’d undo him so easily.
His lips trail down, brushing your jaw, the slope of your neck, each kiss a question he’s too careful to ask aloud. And you answer with the arch of your back, the way your fingers twist in the hem of his shirt, tugging, pulling it out of his jeans.
The sweatshirt you’re wearing shifts slightly, slipping off one shoulder. Namjoon leans back just enough to see it—see you—and his breath hitches. His thumb ghosts over the exposed skin, reverent and slow, like he’s not sure how he got this lucky but he’s not going to waste a second of it.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, half into your shoulder.
You laugh, a breathless sound that doesn’t even try to hide how wrecked you already are. “You haven’t seen me yet.”
He lets out a soft laugh, the kind that’s half amusement, half awe, and presses another lingering kiss to the curve of your neck. His fingers tighten just a bit on your waist, pulling you that much closer.
“I’m getting there,” he says, voice like honey, like a promise unfolding.
You feel it in your spine—in the low, slow drag of his hands along your sides, the tug at the hem of your shirt, the warm press of his mouth as it returns to your collarbone, kissing lower now. His breath fans against your skin, and your fingers thread into his hair again, gently tugging, urging.
“Joon,” you whisper, not sure if it’s a plea or a warning, or if it matters.
He hums against you like he heard both. When his hands slide beneath the hem of the sweatshirt, they pause at your waist—fingertips stroking over bare skin as if to ask, this much? And when you nod, he moves upward, deliberate and slow, slipping the fabric higher. It peels off over your head with a soft sound, and for a beat, he stops.
Your chest is bare before him, flushed like your cheeks and Namjoon doesn’t speak—doesn’t know how to anymore. He just stares.
Like he’s trying to memorize the curve of you, the way the light catches your skin, the rise and fall of your breath. One hand lifts slowly, and rests just beneath your breast, palm warm, fingers splayed wide. You stutter slightly, and his eyes flicker to yours.
He finds no fear in your gaze, just the same quiet, open awe that took refuge in his own heart.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low, steady, thumb brushing lightly against your ribcage like he’s trying to soothe you even as you unravel.
You nod. “Yeah. Just… it’s you.”
His hands slide up, featherlight, thumb brushing just beneath you nipple and you tremble again.
“You’re unreal,” he says, like it’s something he’s trying to convince you of.
You don’t hide from it. You reach for him instead, fingers moving to his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “Touch me,”
He leans forward, pressing a kiss just above your heart—soft, almost shy—and then another, lower, slower, his lips brushing the swell of your breast like he’s learning the shape of your skin by his lips. His other hand slides up your side, calloused fingertips trailing over sensitive skin until they meet the curve of your back. When his mouth closes around your nipple, warm and wet, your back arches instinctively, his palm keeping you steady, a breathy sound escaping you that you’re too far gone to care about hiding.
Namjoon groans at that—deep and quiet, vibrating where his mouth presses against you. His teeth drag over your nipple and you moan again, wrecked, melting against him fully. Only when he deemed you wrecked enough he switches sides, lavishing the same attention to your other nipple, his hands never fully leaving your skin.
You feel yourself pulsing already, thighs tightening around his waist where you still sit in his lap, hips rolling without quite meaning to. The friction is slow, but it’s enough to drag a sound from both of you—his head dropping slightly, teeth catching his bottom lip as he exhales hard through his nose.
“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice cracking on it, running cold over your wet chest. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You give him a weak laugh through the haze, eyes fluttering half-shut. “That’s not the plan.”
He grins, kissing above your heart again.
“Take this off,” you murmur back, undoing just the top few buttons before tugging the shirt fully out of his jeans.
He doesn't hesitate.
Namjoon lifts his arms, and you pull the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, letting it fall somewhere behind you both. And suddenly there’s nothing between you anymore; just bare skin and rugged breath and the thrum of something heady and unstoppable threading through every second spent apart.
You take a second to look at him. Tracing the lines of his chest with your hands, the dip between his collarbones, the slope of his shoulders. His skin is warm beneath your palms, muscles shifting under your touch like he’s barely holding still. When you lean in to press a kiss to his sternum, you see the way his eyes flutter shut, and feel his heart jump beneath your lips.
The moment swells again when you rock against him, hips shifting just enough to draw a weak sound from his throat—low and guttural, his hands returning to your hips, gripping tighter now.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says, voice strained.
“Don’t stop.”
That’s all it takes.
He lifts you, carefully, arms hooked around your thighs, slowly moving you down the hall. His kisses hungrier now—your jaw, your throat, the slope of your chest. The warmth of his body pressed against yours, drawing you closer with every step, every breath.
By the time he lays you down, the bed creaks under your weight, sheets cool against your back in stark contrast to the heat of his body above you. Namjoon hovers for a moment—like he needs that final second to catch up, to make sure this is real. That you’re here. That he’s allowed. And he kisses you, a little demanding now, impossibly tender, full of intent. Tongue sliding slow against yours, one hand braced by your head, the other trailing along your side, smoothing down the curve of your waist. You gasp softly into his mouth when his palm cups your thigh, guiding it around his hip, anchoring you.
His body fits over yours like it was made to.
Your own hands roam, tracing the planes of his back, feeling the taut muscles flex under your touch, nails softly tracing confessions of love until he shivers beneath your fingertips.
He groans against your mouth, and you answer in the same breath. You reach down between you, tugging at the waistband of your sweats, and Namjoon stills, just for a second, before helping you out of them. The fabric slides down your legs with your underwear, and joins the rest of your clothes somewhere forgotten. He kisses down your torso as he goes, mouth brushing each inch of newly exposed skin like a silent thank you.
When he settles between your thighs, his breath is already shaky.
“You sure?” he asks again, voice weak, reverent, gaze stolen by the wetness pooling between your legs.
You nod, and this time, you say it with your whole body—rising up on your elbows to brush away the strands of hair that have fallen over his forehead. “Yes. I just—” your breath shakes. “I never do this.”
Namjoon stills at that—just for a moment—his hand still resting on your thigh, thumb sweeping gently over the apex of your thighs.
His expression softens, gaze flicking between your eyes. “We don’t have to,” he says, voice low, steady. Not pulling away, just… waiting. “I want you, but not more than I want you to feel safe.”
You exhale, “No. I want to,” you say, and your voice is steadier now, like his patience gave you permission to mean it. “I just don’t usually—” You trail off, words failing, head sinking in his pillow, but he seems to understand.
Namjoon leans in, brushing a kiss to your hip. Then your thigh. Then the inside of it. “Then we go slow.”
His breath is warm where his mouth lingers, kissing down the tender skin between your hip and knee, charting you, piece by piece, before hiking your knee over his shoulder. “Tell me what you like,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin. “What feels good.”
You’re already trembling, and he hasn’t even touched you properly yet.
Your fingers tangle into his hair, not to guide, just to hold. “You.”
He smirks at that. You feel it against your thigh before the sudden rush when he sinks his teeth right there in the doughy skin.
You gasp, fingers tugging, but it’s enough to distract you from the way he lowers himself fully, settles between your legs like he belongs there, like he’s not just willing, but eager to worship and take his time at this altar. His arms curl around your thighs, grounding you with the weight of his palms as his mouth dips lower, his breath teasing against your folds.
And when he finally licks you, it’s slow. A single, unhurried stroke from your entrance all the way to your clit that makes your hips twist and your breath falter. He moans softly, like the taste of you confirms something he’s been hoping not to long for, the sound rolling against your sensitive clit.
“God,” he murmurs. “You’re already so wet.”
You whimper, hips tilting toward him, and he takes the invitation gladly.
His mouth seals over your clit, tongue flicking with soft, rhythmic pressure—exploratory at first, then purposeful. Like he’s learning what makes you gasp and then doing it again. And again. And again.
Your thighs begin to tense, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other still anchored in his hair. You glance down and find him already watching you, eyes half-lidded and dark, utterly focused.
“Just like that,” you breathe, your voice so airy it hardly sounds like your own.
He moans into you—low, rough, vibrating straight through your core—and your whole body shudders.
When he shifts slightly, you feel the press of his tongue lower, dipping just inside, slow and deliberate. His hands adjust, one palm pressing against your lower belly, the other keeping you open for him as he moves back, mouth closing around your clit again—sucking just once, firmly—and your whole body arches.
You can’t stop the sounds you’re making now. You’re past that. Every flick of his tongue is unraveling you, making it harder to remember anything but his name, the way he tastes you like it’s Sacrament, like he’s been starving.
“Na-Joon,” you gasp, and he hums in response.
That’s all it takes. The rhythm. The hum. The patience in the way he doesn’t rush you, but feel you.
You come with a cry that splits the silence, fingers twisting in his hair, back arching, heels digging into the bed, his name catching in your throat like a prayer you weren’t prepared to say.
Namjoon doesn’t pull away—not right away. He lets you ride it out, only slowing when your body starts to tremble from oversensitivity. He presses one last kiss to your thigh, then rises over you, lips swollen and chin slick, eyes molten with something between adoration and hunger.
“Still okay?” he murmurs, voice hoarse, mouth ghosting over yours.
You nod, barely able to form words, breath catching as you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him back down to you.
“More than okay,” you whisper. “Come here.”
He kisses you again, slower this time, less urgent but no less intense. You can taste yourself on his lips, but there’s no shame behind it—just fucking heat you’ve never felt before. A flicker of something raw and real between you. His hand cradles the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek, your jaw, your neck, like you’re still something he needs to hold carefully.
You kiss him back just as fully, fingers threading into his hair, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress in all the ways you didn’t know you needed. And when you shift beneath him—bare skin sliding against the fabric of his jeans—you both groan at the same time.
“Namjoon, baby, my love,” you murmur, voice low and frayed, so wild it doesn’t even register what you’re saying. “I want to feel you.”
His gaze darkens at that. His hand trails slowly down your side, over your hip, between your legs again—touching you softly, testing how sensitive you still are. You twitch under his fingers, and he smiles against your mouth.
“You’re still shaking,” he whispers.
“I want you” you breathe again. “I want all of you. Please.”
You can see how that undoes him. The way his eyes flutter , jaw tightening without him wanting it, like he’s holding something back—like he has been for too long. He groans low in his throat, kissing you again, slower this time, like he needs it to confirm the last piece of his puzzle, to bring himself back to earth, to feel you, the sound of your voice saying things he never thought he’d get to hear.
“Okay,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark and full, pupils blown wide. “Okay, yeah.”
You nod, lips parting with the ache of it, and he leans in to kiss you again—this time quicker, just to indulge himself. His hand moves to your thigh, fingers curling around it, anchoring you open beneath him, and he reaches down without breaking the kiss—fumbling for the drawer beside the bed.
The soft rip of the wrapper breaks the hush between you, and you breathe in shakily when you feel him shift back, just enough to strip the last of his clothing away, enough to reach for the fly of his jeans, and for your gaze to follow him instinctively.
It’s not the first time you’ve seen someone undress in front of you—but it feels like the first time. Maybe it’s the low light, or the hush of rain still ticking against the windows. Maybe it’s the reverence with which he wrecks you—or maybe it’s just him. But as Namjoon pushes his jeans down, your breath catches all over again.
You take him in slowly, eyes tracing the lines of him, the quiet power of his frame. The solid line of his thighs. The long stretch of his torso, skin kissed with warmth, marked by the rise and fall of his breathing. The way his cock hangs heavy, already hard for you, fucking big and flushed at the tip. He’s beautiful in a way that makes your throat tighten.
He doesn’t shy from your gaze. If anything, his stance softens. His hands fall loosely at his sides when he’s done with the condom, waiting for your reaction—not cocky, not proud, just… there.
You swallow. “You’re…”
He tilts his head. “Yeah?”
“God,” you breathe, sitting up more fully now. “You’re kind of ridiculous.”
A faint smile tugs at his lips, breath catching as your fingers reach for him, grazing lightly along his hip before you look back up. “That’s a good thing, right?”
You nod, unable to keep the heat from your voice. “It’s a very good thing.”
Namjoon laughs—quiet and a little unsteady, like you’ve knocked the breath out of him again. His shoulders relax, his stance falters just enough to reveal the truth behind it: he’s just as wrecked as you are. Just as undone by your eyes, and your voice, and the way you’re sitting there with your legs parted and your fingers on his skin.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” he says softly, kneeling on the bed again, letting your hand guide him closer.
You hum, fingertips brushing along the V of his hips, watching the way his stomach flexes under your touch. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he echoes, leaning in until his lips meet your shoulder, then your jaw and his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling. “You’re everything".”
You don’t reply, you just kiss him instead.
His hand comes up to cradle the side of your face again, thumb brushing the line of your cheek before sliding into your hair, as he exhales into your mouth.
Then you shift, pulling him down with you, and he follows without hesitation—settling between your thighs, the heat of his body a welcome weight, grounding and electric all at once, pushing you against the mattress. He lines himself up, careful, steady, eyes flicking to yours for that last silver of confirmation.
You nod.
And he pushes in slowly, and it steals the very breath from your lungs.
The stretch is otherworldly. Intimate. painful and pleasurable all at once. His hands brace your hips, guiding you through it, and the moment he’s fully seated inside you, you both freeze, overcome. Your hand clutches at his shoulder. His forehead presses to yours again.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, barely audible.
Namjoon lets out a sharp breath, grounding his weight on one forearm. “You feel—fuck” he whimpers. Fucking whimpers. “Fuck,” he repeats every syllable drawn out, trembling. “You feel—you feel—” doesn’t even finish the sentence. Just groans, his hips rolling once, testing the fit, the friction, and your body clenches around him on instinct.
“I know,” you gasp, blinking up at him, swallowing down the sound building in your throat. “I know.” But it still dissolves into a wrecked moan when he starts to move.
Slow at first, measured. The roll of his hips smooth and sure, dragging heat out of you one breath at a time. You’re impossibly hot around him, slick and gripping tight, and it pulls a curse from his lips that has you tightening again, and his slow rhythm almost stutters.
“Fuck. Don’t do that.” He breathes, voice cracking low in your ear, like he's trying not to unravel right then and there on top of you. “You’ll kill me woman.”
But you do it anyway—tighten around him, just to see the way he loses control again. The way his voice wavers, the way his hips jerk forward harder than he meant to, pulling a moan from your throat that you don’t have time to swallow down.
“Fuckin’” he doesn’t finish. Just buries his face in your neck like he’s overwhelmed. “God you’re…”
He doesn’t even know what. Evil? How can you when you feel like heaven. Perfect? He already knows that, and suspects you know it too with the way you arch into him, chasing every slow thrust, one leg wrapping tighter around his waist to draw him in even deeper.
The love of my life. Like what it means to want someone without fear.
His hand moves, cradles the back of your knee, lifting your leg higher around his waist, and the angle shifts—deeper, perfect, a little faster—and you keen again, clinging to him, nails scratching down his spine.
And he’s back at evil again. Because how else can you explain it when someone breaks you like that? So easily, so completely, just with the way you say his name.
“Jesus, baby,” he pants, the endearment slipping out raw, like it doesn’t need permission anymore. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
You smile—wrecked, breathless, wild around the edges—because you want to. Because the power feels electric in your blood and you can’t stop rocking up to meet every thrust, trying to pull more of him, all of him, deeper. “You’re already ruined,” you manage to say, even though your voice barely holds.
Namjoon groans like you’ve struck something in him, something buried, something feral. He braces both hands now, caging you in beneath him as his rhythm falters—harder, deeper, no less reverent, but touched with desperation.
The bed cries in protest, headboard fully slamming against the wall now, the sound of skin and breath and everything unspoken crashing into the space around you like a storm too long held back.
You can’t think anymore. Just feel. Just take him—the way he fucks into you, every push, every sound he makes, the way his breath runs hot against your sweaty skin. The way his teeth sink into your neck. The way you let go so easily with him.
“Say it again,” he grits out, voice wrecked, ragged, like he’s chasing something he can’t name.
You blink up at him, barely able to hold his gaze, but you do. You do. You reach for him—both hands cupping his face, your thumb sweeping over the sweat at his temple. “You’re mine.”
And that’s what breaks him.
Namjoon shudders like he’s trying to hold himself together and failing gloriously. Like he’s not just inside you but completely undone by the fact that he gets to have you. All of you, without pretense or performance.
His lips crash into yours again, breath mixing, teeth grazing, and it’s not graceful anymore—it’s reduced to it’s essence. It's raw. Devastation in its honesty. His rhythm stutters, faster now, deeper, each thrust drawing a sound out of you you’ve never made for anyone else.
You feel yourself tightening around him again—close, so close—and your fingers tangle in his hair as you gasp, “I’m gonna—Joon, I—”
“I know,” he whispers, forehead against yours, his voice cracking on the edge of it. “Come with me. Come on, baby.”
And when it hits—when your body seizes around him, when the moan breaks from your throat so loud it almost scares you—it drags him down with you. His hips stutter once, twice more, then he’s pulsing inside you with a groan torn from somewhere deep, too deep to name.
He collapses onto you slowly, carefully, doing his best not to crush you.
But you don’t mind. Not really. Not when you’re both there. And in the silence that follows, with chests heaving, limbs tangled together, skin flushed and trembling, you feel it.
The weight of everything you just said without words.
He kisses your shoulder. Then your cheek. Then your mouth.
Slow. Soft, like gratitude.
“You okay?” He whispers a moment after, brushing your hair back.
You nod, eyes glassy, lips parted, still catching your breath. “I think you just rewrote my brain.”
“Good. I’ve been meaning to leave an impression.” Namjoon laughs, quiet and breathless. and you can’t help but laugh too.
Outside, the rain still hasn’t stopped. But it’s falling slower now, softer. Like even the sky got the message that it’s time to quiet down.
You're still wrapped around each other, his arm heavy cross your waist, your fingers drawing aimless shapes into his back. Neither of you speak for a long while. Not because there's nothing to say. But because there is no urgency to say it. Not now. Not when it feels like everything that needed to be known has already been shared somewhere in the in-between.
Eventually, Namjoon shifts, slowly easing out of you with care, kissing your cheek before sliding out of bed with reluctance. You’re too tired to watch him pad across the room, still you pick up on the soft rustle of tissues and the low thunk of the bathroom bin as he knocks into it. Then the faint splash of water, the crackle of a wet wipe package.
He comes back with both—water first, holding the glass steady while you sip, then the warm, damp wipe he uses gently, reverently, to clean between your thighs. His touch is so careful, you almost want to cry, because you’ve never been handled quite like this—so cherished, even in the quiet after.
You whisper his name, blinking through tired eyes, and he only smiles—soft, boyish, exhausted in the way that means he gave you everything.
 Namjoon tosses the wipe in the trash, then slides back into bed beside you. The sheets are cool, your skin still flushed from the heat between you, but he pulls the covers over both of you and wraps his arms around your waist like he’s never letting go.
You’re just beginning to drift—his heartbeat steady against your chest—when you hear him speak again, barely above a whisper. 
“You’re not going to disappear in the morning, are you?”
 You smile faintly, pressing your forehead to chest. “No. Are you?”
He laughs under his breath, the sound gently shaking you. “No. This is my house.”
You laugh then, quietly—tired and soft and maybe a little in love with the way he says it. Like it’s obvious. Like of course he’s not going anywhere.
“I guess that makes it harder to sneak out unnoticed,” you murmur, your fingers brushing over the line over his heart, lazy and affectionate.
Namjoon shifts, just enough to nudge his nose against the crown of your head. “Exactly. You’d have to climb out a window. And I’m not sure you’re up for that after—”
You cut him off with a light pinch to his side, and he huffs a laugh, catching your wrist gently and bringing your hand back to his chest.
“Okay,” he says, quieter again, thumb stroking once across your knuckles. “Then stay. Just… stay.”
You nod. No teasing now. No hesitation.
“I’m here.”
And you mean it. Not just tonight, not just in the warmth of his bed. You mean here, with him. Maybe forever.
~~~
The light is soft when you wake—filtered through thin curtains and rain-slicked windows, casting a muted gold across the room. It takes a moment to remember where you are. The scattered clothes. The unfamiliar ceiling. The warmth at your back.
Namjoon’s arm is draped over your waist, his chest flush to your spine, breath slow and steady against your shoulder. His hold is loose, but sure. Like even in sleep, he’s still holding on.
You shift just enough to glance over your shoulder.
He’s still asleep. His hair is a mess, smushed from the pillow, lips slightly parted. He looks peaceful—unreasonably handsome in that soft, unguarded way people only look when they forget they’re being seen.
Then he stirs.
Nudges his nose into the crook of your neck like he’s chasing your warmth in his sleep. A beat later, voice low and scratchy from sleep, he mumbles, “Mornin’”
You turn to face him, smiling into the space between you. “Morning.”
“You’re warm,” he mutters.
You nuzzle into his chest, letting yourself settle there, your smile hidden in his skin. “You’re clingy in the morning.”
“You like it.”
You do. God, you do. You just don’t say it yet. Instead, you tease, “Do you always get this handsy before breakfast?”
His lips brush your temple, and you can feel the grin in his answer. “Only with you.”
You stay like that a while. Wrapped in the quiet. In each other. Long enough for the sun to climb higher, for the real world to knock softly at the edges of the room.
“Do you have a plan for today?” He murmurs.
You shake your head, cheek against his chest. “Not really. I just want a shower.”
Namjoon hums, his hand flattening gently against the small of your back. “Later.”
You laugh, quiet and warm, your legs tangling more deliberately with his under the covers. His fingertips trace idle patterns on your spine now, slow and lazy, like he’s in no rush to be anywhere but here. And maybe you aren’t either.
“I should text my mother,” you murmur eventually, not moving.
“Mhm.” He still doesn’t let go.
“And Jimin.” You smile at the way his eyes flutter close, hands still moving. “He’s my friend. He’ll probably grill you even harder than my mother.”
Namjoon just hums.
“I should grab my shirt.”
“No need,” he mumbles into your hair.
You snort softly, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before slipping free—slowly, reluctantly. He makes a quiet noise of protest, half-heartedly reaching for your wrist but missing.
“We need to work on this morning person tendencies you have if we want this marriage to work.” He mutters, rubbing a hand down his face, his hair spiking up even more when he runs that same hand through it.
You grin, tugging the crumpled sheet with you as you stand up. “That’s fine. I’ll just marry you in the afternoon instead.”
Behind you, Namjoon groans into the mattress. “You can’t say stuff like that when I haven’t had my coffee yet.”
“You started it,” you call back, voice light even despite the ache between your thighs.
“I’ll get you a towel,” he says around a yawn, already swinging his legs over the bed just as you leave the bedroom in search of your phone.
You pad into the living room and grab your sweatshirt too, swinging it over your shoulder, muscles still deliciously sore. Your phone is right where you left it—wedged in the couch cushions—and as you pick it up, it lights up immediately.
[12 notifications – Jimini 🐸]
You swipe.
12:30 PM: did he come? 12:30 PM: lol come. 🤣😂🫣😏 12:31 PM: no. joking. your mother arranged this—DISGUSTING✨💕 12:31 PM: maybe… send me a pic! a sneaky one. just make sure ur flash isnt on like last time.😂 4:13 PM: Are we still getting drinks with Tae or…? 4:17 PM: helloooooo?!?! 6:27 PM: babe. are you alive? 10:37 PM: I swear if you’re dead I’m gonna be so pissed 12:10 AM: do you know CPR? because I might need it when you finally tell me what happened with that tall korean man. 8:55 AM: okay it’s morning! say something. 9:00 AM: HELLLOOOOOOOOO 9:01 AM: fine. I hope he’s ugly.
You bite your lip, suppressing a grin.
From the hallway, you hear Namjoon’s voice, still hoarse, “Do you eat in the mornings?”
You blink at your phone, thumb hovering over Jimin’s latest message.
You: he’s not.
Then—just loud enough for him to hear, a grin already creeping up your face—you call back, “Eat what?”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then: a choked sound, and Namjoon’s footsteps.
You don’t even bother turning around.
“…Food,” he deadpans, emerging around the corner, already dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, towel in his hand, the other combing through his wild, sleep-ruined hair. “I’m going to get us some coffee. Wanted to know your order too.”
You nod slowly, pretending to consider it, even though your smile is already betraying you. “Hmm. Something strong. Hot. Sweet, but not too sweet.”
Namjoon raises an eyebrow at you like he knows exactly what you're doing when you grab the towel from his hands. “You want me or coffee?”
You grin, finally meeting his eyes. “I can have both.” You tease, walking towards the bathroom.
He exhales a short laugh, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as you pass by. “I’ll be back before you finish.”
You glance back at him over your shoulder, already half down the hallway, towel slung loose over your arm. “Don’t rush on my account.”
Namjoon smirks, leaning his weight against the doorframe for a moment like he’s debating whether to follow you in after all. “Too late. I'm already thinking about round two.”
You snort. “Bold of you to assume I won’t lock the door.”
Namjoon grins, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Challenge accepted.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head as you walk into the bathroom, door completely open behind you, even when you step into the shower.
Namjoon chuckles, heart full and a little dumb, suddenly eager to actually keep his promise of being back before you finish. He slides on a pair of slides and heads down the hall. Waiting for the elevator, he pulls his phone from his pocket, scrolling through yesterday’s notifications.
Work mails, with nothing urgent still, his sister wishing him luck on his date.
Then, five missed calls from his mother and a message that makes him pause.
Eomma 💮: I can’t believe you Kim Namjoon. You are completely something else! How could you even think about skipping on the date!? let alone leave that poor girl hanging??? Ajumeoni Bae said she’d considering lowering your profile!! LOWERING IT! I am deeply disappointed.
His thumb hovers over the screen, mind momentarily blank.
Skip the date?
Namjoon blinks, glancing at the timestamp. The message came in sometime last night—hours after he’d already been tangled up with you in his sheets, your mouth on his, your laugh caught in his chest. Definitely not skipping anything.
Unless—
He swipes back to his call log. All the missed calls from his mom came after dinner.
Well after he’s already met you…
His brow furrows.
“The fuck?”
The elevator dings, but he doesn’t step in right away. Instead, he rereads the message before stepping inside and calling his mother.
The phone rings twice before his mother picks up—no hello, no greeting, just straight to the point.
“Namjoon-ah, you better have a good explanation.”
He closes his eyes briefly, already bracing himself. “Hi, Eomma.”
“Don’t ‘hi Eomma’ me. Do you know how embarrassed I was when I got that call from Ajumeoni Bae? I practically begged her to keep your file active! I told her you’re a good boy—just shy, busy, thoughtful. But this? Skipping on a date without so much as a message?”
He rubs a hand over his face. “I didn’t skip.”
“Oh really?” She huffs. “Because the girl you were supposed to meet complained you never showed!” She lets out something he can only describe as profound disappointment. “I can’t believe you did this—”
“No, I—” Namjoon blinks hard, staring at the elevator doors like they might provide answers. “I met with her, Eomma. At the Cafe next to the SeMa? A girl in a pink dress. Kang Y/N.”
That makes his mother stop mid rant, a long pause following. So long it makes him wonder if the elevator ate up all his phone signal.
“What?” she asks, suspicious.
“Yes. We ate lunch, ended up going for a walk and then dinner and a gallery too—” and he stops because that is enough information for her.
“Kang what?” His mother demands.
“Y/N.” Namjoon says, just as certain as before. “Pink dress. works as a paralegal at a firm in Seoul, at the café near the museum. You said—”
“I said your match would be wearing a pink dress, yes,” she cuts in, “but her name is Kang Mirae, Namjoon. Mirae!”
Namjoon blinks. “…Who?”
“Oh my dear God,” she breathes, and he can practically hear her pacing now. “ You mean to tell me you went on a date yesterday and didn’t even download her complete file? Did you just read the debrief?” She sounds borderline outraged.
“I thought—” He stops, then runs a hand through his hair. What did he think? “Listen, I saw a her by the window, she fit the description. I figured it was her.”
“And you just sat down?” The disbelief dripping from his mother’s voice is almost unbearable. He feels like a small kid again, getting scolded for coloring on the walls. “You didn’t even confirm she was sent by Ajumeoni Bae?!”
Namjoon grimaces. “No?”
There’s a pause. A sharp exhale. Then—
“Namjoon-ah. Aigoo.” The sound is somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement now. “How did you manage to pay to go on a date and still end up on the wrong one?”
He closes his eyes, forehead tapping against the cool elevator wall. “I thought she was her.”
“You thought? You thought? Did she even mention Ajumeoni Bae’s services?”
“No,” he admits, voice small. “But she looked… like she was waiting for someone too…”
“She wasn’t waiting for you!” his mom cries, fully amused now. “You just saw a girl in a pink dress and assumed?”
“Well technically she assumed too—she didn’t ask either!”
“Oh my God!” She was full-on giggling now. “Dear God,” she says. “You two really deserve each other. I accidentally raised a himbo.”
Namjoon groans. “Eomma—”
“No, no, don’t you ‘Eomma’ me. This is so stupid it must be destiny. You went on a blind date with the wrong woman,” she cackles. “Is she pretty? You said paralegal? Lawyer was better but paralegal isn't bad. Wait—” She pauses mid tirade “Did she know she was supposed to marry you after this date?”
“Yes…She was supposed to meet a Kim,” Namjoon says, running a hand through his hair again, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “That’s what her mom told her. Just—‘a Kim.’”
There’s a beat of stunned silence on the other end of the line.
Then: “Aigoo.” His mom’s voice turns reverent, like she’s just witnessed divine intervention. “That’s fate, Namjoon-ah! You stumbled into your match without even trying.”
Namjoon makes a low noise in his throat, not quite agreement, not quite denial.
“Does she like you?” His mom asks, immediately nosy again. “She must, if you’re still alive.”
“She stayed the night, didn’t she?”
“Kim Namjoon!”
“I didn’t mean it like—well, okay, maybe I did. But it wasn’t—” He pauses, mouth twitching. “I like her,” he admits quietly.
More silence.
“I really like her,” he adds, just as the elevator doors slide open.
And his mom, predictably, gasps like she’s just been handed a winning lottery ticket. “Then you better fix this before she finds out from someone else and thinks you’re some matchmaking scammer!”
Namjoon winces. “Why would she even think that?”
“I don’t know! I’m just being thorough. Now go! Make it right. And Namjoon?”
“…Yes?”
“You’re both idiots.”
“Thank you, eomma.” He deadpans.
His mother snorts. “Anytime sweetheart. Now go! I want to meet her soon!”
“You will.” He chuckles and hangs up with a sigh, slipping his phone back in his pocket as he steps out of the elevator and into the soft, overcast morning. The morning smells like rain and city steam, and his brain is buzzing, equal parts panic, disbelief and something stupidly light and warm.
He accidentally ghosted his match.
He accidentally met his better-half.
And yet—he can’t bring himself to regret any of it.
Not when you’re still upstairs in his shower. Not when he can still picture your sleepy smile and the curve of your neck and the sound of your laugh echoing off the bathroom tile. Not when his bedsheets still smell like you.
He ducks into the café on the corner, nods to the barista who already knows his usual, and adds a second coffee order. Strong, hot, sweet—but not too sweet.
Then he points to the pastry case, zeroing in on the flakiest, most obscenely overpriced croissant he can find. The kind of treat you’d mock and inhale in two bites.
He taps his card. He adjusts the pastry bag under his arm, balancing the coffees carefully as he starts back toward the building.
He’s going to tell you everything….
Just… maybe after caffeine.
Maybe after you’ve stopped smelling like his shampoo.
Maybe after round two.
Maybe.
~~~
Epilogue: The steam curls around you in the shower. Your hands are all over him.
Water runs down your spine in rivulets, hot and heavy, but he’s hotter still—his skin, his mouth, the way his fingers skate over your damp skin, mapping out the slope of your waist, the curve of your ass and he carefully presses you against the cold tiles.
His lips drag across your neck, up to your lips to catch them back in another heated kiss. He tastes like coffee now. Like maybe he stole a sip before he got in with you, and you can’t seem to get enough of it.
His palm finds your thigh and lifts it, slow and deliberate, anchoring your leg around his hip. The movement brings your bodies flush together, and the groan that leaves him—low, ragged, real—makes you clench around him.
You bite at his bottom lip and feel him shudder.
Then—
“Random question, have you ever heard of Ajumeoni Bae?”
You gasp around a moan, a little wrecked, a whole lot confused. “Who?”
59 notes · View notes
sarahsghosts · 7 hours ago
Text
can’t get soulmate!graves outta my head:
• your 141’s medic.
• you and graves meet in las almas and quickly realize that your soulmate marks match or you have each other’s names tattooed on you, or whatever it may be.
• what a place to meet your soulmate, but neither of you are complaining when you’re on your back, eyes screwed shut, whining and moaning the name you’ve had marked on you your entire life.
• phillip had never seen a prettier sight.
• then comes the mission on the oil rig. on the way back to base, he gets the call: shepherd wants shadow company to take over the operation.
• normally, graves would’ve been thrilled.
• for someone who had been disenfranchised with the military, the idea of his pmc being given authority in favor of several military units, made his ego swell and his dick hard.
• the only problem was you.
• shepherd had warned him that 141 may not take it too well. something about a misplaced sense of honor or some bullshit like that.
• graves warned his men that things might get hairy.
• he looked over to his second-in-command, osmond “oz” ryan.
• “if things go sideways, pull her outta there.”
• oz raised a brow, but nodded once. “yes, sir.”
• you were furious when the bullets started flying and some enormous brute with dreadlocks grabbed you around the waist and tossed you into the back of a shadow company suv.
• when they dragged you back to los vaqueros hq, you were cursing and fighting the entire way.
• but then graves clicked his tongue at you and hauled you back into the office by your arm.
• you tried to stay angry, you really did, but it was difficult to when he seemed to know exactly where to touch you to make you melt.
• it was hard to think straight when he had you pinned to the wall, face first, your handcuffed wrists stretched over your head, as he bit your shoulder, sliding his hand under your shirt to gently roll your nipple between his fingers.
• normally, this would be the exact sort of thing that would piss you off: some cocksure american man, his hands all over you, mumbling absolute filth against your skin as he kissed and licked the side of your throat.
• “you look so pretty coming undone for me. should i make you beg for it? hmm?”
• “look at this mark here. you know what that means? means you’re mine.”
• your head was dizzy and your brain foggy, as you felt him drive himself deeper and deeper into you.
• but you couldn’t help yourself when you bit back, “you h-have a mark, too, a-asshole.”
• he chuckled, something low and arrogant. “damn right, darlin’,” he murmured, sending shivers down your spine. “ain’t nobody for me, but you.”
• and then you knew for sure, there was no escaping phillip graves.
• because call it fate or god or the universe, but something deep inside you burst with pride at the very notion.
• you were his and he was yours.
• sure, you guys might be enemies, but you were soulmates.
• you could figure the rest out later.
29 notes · View notes
slashingdisneypasta · 1 year ago
Note
BRO SOMETHING HAPPENED AT WORK!!! I'M HOLED UP IK THE BATHROOM RN JUST TO TELL YOU!!!!!!
Ok ok ok. So during the lunch rush, this lady walks up to the register to pay for her food. No biggie, huh? I do my job as normal. That's what you do...
And then I looked up and saw the woman wearing a shirt of MY WIFE!!!
Tumblr media
IT WAS THIS EXACT ONE!!! Well the color was more of a lavender but STILL!!!! MY WIFE CAME TO SEE ME AT WORK!!! I ALMOST SCREAMED IN THIS WOMANS FACE!!!!! I WAS ROCKING ON MY HEELS IN EXCITEMENT!!!! THIS ONE MOMENT MADE MY DAY!!! XD
I am embarrassed that I got this excited and happy over a T-shirt 😅 (and admittedly a little more embarrassed/flustered when i imagined if Tiffany was really right there. Like, no, don't look at me when I smell like burritos 😅😅😅😅), but at the same time, I SAW MY FIRST F/O OUT IN THE WILD!!!!
I may get this shirt now 🤔 have you ever had moments like this when you see your F/O on merch or something? XD ^^
I woke up at the ungodly time of 5.30am on a Saturday for no apparent reason, checked my notifications, and saw THIS and I was instantly okay with it XDD
YOUR WIFE!!
IN PUBLIC, IT WAS YOU'RE WIFE!!! B E F O R E YOU!!!
WAHHH! XDD
Omg, I can just feel your excitement XDD THAT SOUNDS SO FUN OMG XDD YES!! TIFFANY CAME TO SEE YOU AT WORK!! SHE DOESNT CARE THAT YOU SMELL LIKE BURRITOS!!! 💜💕💜💕💜💕 SHE WANTED TO SEE YOU AND FLUSTER YOU A BIT! XD
Tumblr media
5 notes · View notes
pseudowho · 6 months ago
Text
It was an average Monday morning when you, Nanami Kento's wife, were turned into a cat.
"An unusual Curse," Shoko had said, "not longer than a week, surely--"
"Not--not longer than a week?!" Kento spluttered, his glasses lopsided, and, dangled in front of him beneath the arms (legs-- legs, he reminded himself)...you.
You, with two pointed ears, a long whippy tail, your many toe-beans and a perturbed little head-tilt. On the doctors' office couch, a neatly folded (if a little furry) pile of your clothes.
"Meow," you had said.
"Don't 'meow' me," Kento spluttered again, fixing you with a stern look that barely overlaid his concern. You simply stared up at him, long, and feline, and unblinking...and reached out one little paw, pressing it onto the end of his nose.
Kento sighed; a bone-deep, weary sigh. Shoko put out her cigarette, speaking through a haze of smoke.
"Like I said. Give it a week, and Mrs.Nyanyami will be back to nor--"
"What did you just call her?'
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
Mrs.Nyanyami, the cat formerly known as Nanami Kento's wife, wanted for nothing.
"I think that tuna's more expensive than anything I've ever eaten," whispered Yuuji to Gojo. On the other side of the conference room, you sat upon the desk before Kento, waiting patiently for the next lump of tuna (meticulously cut into cat-appropriate cubes) to be delivered in his chopsticks.
As Kento's hand approached, you held it close with paw and claws, to steal the pink fish from him. He looked like a surgeon performing heart surgery.
"I just...dont know how he can look so serious while he's doing that," Gojo whispered back, to Yuuji's frantic nods. Still, they watched this freakish nature documentary with quiet obsession.
A higher-up sat down beside Kento, waiting for the meeting to begin. Jolting back, and grumbling, he did a double take.
"Young man-- you can't bring a cat to a Sorcerer's meeting--"
"That's not a cat," Kento snapped, frosty, "that's my wife."
And so began the rumour amongst the higher-ups, that Nanami Kento had gone mad.
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
"You should leave her at home--"
"--absolutely not--"
"--really, Nanami...just put the television on, she'll be fine--"
"--unequivocally, no--"
"--why not?!"
Silence. An awkward shuffle on Kento's thick chest. You peeked your head out of the pocket of the cat-carrying hoodie that Kento wore over his shirt and tie, and turned to Gojo with narrowed eyes.
"Meow," you had said, batting at Kento's strings, and hooking his tie out with your paw, to kick it to death with your legs.
"I agree," said Kento, whispering and scratching you beneath the chin until you purred, "he's wrong, isn't he? Stupid Gojo. You'd get lonely. You'd get bored. Yes you would..."
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
"Oh my god...he's gorgeous...you should get his number--"
"--I'm not brave enough...you go. I'll get our coffees."
"--okay, okay..." The woman cleared her throat, sweeping her hair behind one ear with her best smile. Kento looked up from his coffee, with one finely raised eyebrow.
"Can I help you?" He lied, unwilling to help anyone at all before he'd finished his croissant.
"Hi, yeah, I just...can't help but notice you're sitting alone, and my friend-- well she-- she just wondered if she can have your number, and--"
The woman broke off into shrieks. Climbing up her leg, all claws and furry vengeance, was you. She shook her leg, shrieking. You hissed. Your cup of steamed milk clattered over the table, slopping everywhere.
"--o-oh my god-- oh my god, what the hell is this cat doi--"
"I'm sorry," Kento sighed, not sorry at all and dabbing his mouth with a napkin and doing absolutely nothing to help, "it's my cat. She doesn't like company--"
Hisses. Claws. Dirty feral yowls.
"Get this fucking thing off me--"
"I can't take you anywhere. No more steamed milk for you."
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
At times, you seemed so human. At others, undeniably cat.
Kento would wake to clattering from the kitchen, bleary and feeling around for you, only to remember, and trace his hand up to the furry, round little patch you'd leave behind on your pillow. He allowed himself just a moment of misery, before getting up.
He followed the sounds of cups and kettle and coffee machine, and leaned against the doorway with sleep-mussed hair and a squinting, teenagerish glare.
You were up on the counter, all four paws and determination. You had gotten as far as switching the kettle and coffee machine on, and heaving the cupboard open with your tiny limbs. Kento watched as you tipped your head sideways, managing to drag two mugs out in your teeth. He winced as they almost smashed upon the counter.
"Come on," Kento rumbled, his voice rusty with sleep, "let me do that."
You meowed at him, batting at the air with one angry paw when he stepped closer. Kento huffed, raising his hands in surrender.
"Fine," he tutted, "but I'll pour the water."
"Meow."
"Why? Because you don't have opposable thumbs, darling."
The fur stood up along your spine. You turned around, and around, in a circle, then sat upright. You turned your back on him while you waited for the kettle to boil. Your tail flicked from side to side, irritable. Kento waited, too, reaching out one hand to stroke your ears.
You nudged your back paw out, and pushed his mug off the side to smash on the floor.
Silence.
"...what is wrong with y--"
"Meow."
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
Skitterskitterskitter.
Distant meows.
Kento groaned, rubbing down his face. He checked the clock, frog-blinking; two in the morning. He groaned harder.
Skitterskitterskitter.
Thunk.
More distant meows.
"Please just come back to bed," Kento moaned into the hands pressed over his face.
SkitterskitterskitterSKITTERSKITTER-- rustlllleerussstle--
Directly over his face.
"Meow--"
"I am begging you--"
RustlerustleTHNKskitterskitterskitter.
Distant meows.
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
"I miss you."
You raised your head to look at him. Your purring hitched. Your ears tilted.
Kento had murmured, his low voice barely audible. The only light in the living room was the ever-changing light of the television screen. Laid on his back on the sofa, with you curled on his chest, Kento stroked down your back with longing.
You crept up his chest, pressing your cold wet nose to his, and purred. Nose to nose, and cross-eyed, Kento could have cried.
"I really miss you," he repeated, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Your claws dug into his chest, just a little. You rub, rub, rubbed your warm furry head along his jaw until he sniffled, and gave a choked little chuckle.
He fell asleep with you on his chest that night. In so many ways, it was familiar; home. In so many others, you were gone forever.
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
"Meow."
Kento shuffled. His chest felt heavy...warm. His belly felt warm, too. And his lap, and--
Kento's eyes shot open, his head lifting up from the couch.
You bit your lip, naked on top of him, and smiling. Human. An angel.
"Oh, my love," Kento moaned, crushing you to him in a bear hug from shoulder to toes, "you're back-- I missed you, I was so worrie--"
You batted an arm out, swiping last night's wine glass from the coffee table beside you, to shatter on the floor.
Silence. Kento blinked slowly, looking from the wine glass, to you. You felt your cheeks grow hot, swallowing hard.
"God, I...sorry, Kento. Force-- force of habit--"
Part Two linked here!
8K notes · View notes
wonubby · 11 days ago
Text
obsessed - k! bakugo
2. hire someone to 'leak' crude pictures of the two of you on holiday
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
synopsis - despite knowing you've successfully bagged katsuki bakugou, aka pro hero dynamight, his fans are still shipping him with his ex. so what's a better way to claim him than leaving little trails of your love on him? specifically, his body.
warnings – fluffy and suggestive, bakugo death mention but only briefly.
prev - masterlist - next
Tumblr media
katsuki wasn't stupid. he knew what your plan was, and honestly? he didn't give two fucks. you were bound to reach your breaking point one day.
he actually loves this side of you. you matched his inner freak on some level. of course, he was still crowned as the 'bitch' in your relationship, given his infuriating attitude.
you, however, were overjoyed. everything fell into place.
phase one? complete. phase two? already in motion.
you and katsuki had travelled to the Bahamas for the week. it was a little getaway for the two of you since he's always busy fighting.
the first two days were spent wrapped in the sheets. the warm air creating a sexy atmosphere that kept the male going. something about fucking in the heat, getting all sweaty, and using his quirk in the midst of the act got him heated.
not that you were complaining though; you were blessed with the most amazing orgasms of your life.
anyway, today, the two of you decided it was the perfect time to head to the beach... with some secret company.
was it a bit desperate to call the paparazzi, getting them to leak pictures of you and your fiance? possibly.
was it going to make that bitch burn? absolutely.
"are you finally ready, babe?" his gruff voice called out to you.
letting out a breathy chuckle, you hooked the last earring on before facing him. "yep," you said, popping the p, "how do i look baby?" you did a little twirl, letting your frilly, leopard tankini flay around you.
smirking, katsuki placed two hands on your hips, biting his lip at the sight. "you always look amazing, sweets. but this? this makes me want to cancel our plans and keep you inside." he said, nuzzling his nose into your neck.
"well, sucks for you, katsu, because whether you like it or no, we're going out there. you can channel all of your inner fuckboy when we're on the beach." you teased, placing two hands on his chest, pushing back.
katsuki was wearing an unbuttoned white shirt with a pair of khaki shorts. his muscles were on display, including the couple of scratch marks you had left on his chest from this morning.
you placed a kiss on his lips, slow and sensual, subtly biting his lower lip as a warning. "worry less about fucking me and more about how you're going to act all lovey for the 'hidden' cameras."
"yes ma'am," he chuckled. boy did he love the new you.
walking towards your purse, you grabbed the keys, throwing them at him before heading to the door. "grab the speaker; i'm making my way to the car."
Tumblr media
the car ride was decent. old 2010s music blasted through the window, as your hair flowed behind you, occasionally stopping to kiss katsuki during the red lights.
you were truly living life.
the moment you reached the beach, the feeling of the dry, hot sand beneath your feet had you relaxing. finally feeling like you could breathe. katsuki was quick behind you, tugging off his unbuttoned shirt and throwing it into a pile of your clothes.
"come here; let's get some sunscreen on you before you look like a tomato," he joked. you scoffed, touching his chest before turning around.
his hands slid up your body, slowly massaging the skin tenderly. your eyes snapped shut, leaning back onto his body as he began. "feels so good, kat. maybe i should make you my personal masseur." you giggled.
"yeah right, like i already don't do all 'at." he groaned teasingly.
as he continued to rub the cream all over your body, you locked eyes with the photographer hidden in the bush. a smirk crawled onto your face as you quickly turned around and faced katsuki.
"have i ever told you how hot you are, baby?" you questioned, eyes half-lidded as you looked at him with the most innocent eyes.
"hmm, no i don't think so." he raised an eyebrow in false confusion. "why? is there something you need to tell me?" his eyes trailed over your body, large hands moving from your hips to your ass.
"nope!" you laughed, running away from the boy and into the water.
"you tease!" he yelled, moving fast to reach your now wet body.
the moment he caught up with you, you were pulled flush against his body as he brought you into a searing kiss. every kiss you shared with katsuki felt magical. he made you feel something. made you mean something.
he was all you could ever ask for, the man of your dreams. you spent your childhood following him around. watching him bully izuku, win the sports festival, and even watching him die. but, during those times, your love for him was simply platonic.
it wasn't until you both bumped into each other while he was on patrol that everything changed. a few months after his breakup with amira, he had contacted you, asking you out on a dinner date. at first, the two of you thought it wasn't anything serious until you shared your first kiss together under the night sky as snow painted the pavement.
breaking away from the kiss, you smiled softly at the man. "i love you." the three words were muttered so softly he could barely hear them.
"i love you too, pretty." he smiled, leaning down and pressing kisses to your neck. tongue poking out to trace the purple marks he left the night prior.
a moan left your lips at the sensation, smiling softly as your hands dragged into your hair. the slight flash of a camera caught your eyes as you nudged katsuki with your knee. he seemed to understand the cue as he effortlessly picked you up, wrapping your legs around his waist.
the moment became intense with mouthwatering kisses and bites being marked all over your body. it clearly gave the photographer what he needed.
"you might be as mean as i am kats. you must really hate her to be doing all this for me."
"i hate everyone. you're just lucky."
Tumblr media
the moment you got home, the internet was going wild.
the pictures were up and everyone was going crazy. fans were trending #DYNAMIGHTBACKMUSCLES, #DYNAY/NFUCKING??? and IN PUBLIC IS CRAZY all over twitter. they analysed the way he held you, how he kissed you and, most importantly, the marks on his back and your neck. their most favourite picture was the one where the reddish handprint on your ass was noticeable.
however, the best reaction was from amira. immediately after the pictures were posted, she turned to Instagram, posting a photo dump. the said dump included photos of food, half-empty wineglasses, beach pictures from last year and an old picture of her hand in katsuki's.
the public were immediately quick to notice the types of pictures and who she posted. some sympathised with her, while others called her out on her shitty behaviour. and maybe others included you because you didn't hesitate to post a tweet.
one that read: "he said thank you for the character development. we’ll send flowers."
yeah, you definitely broke the internet.
Tumblr media
© 2025 wonubby— All rights reserved. Please don't post my work as your own on any other sites.
@httpskyuko @dahliadaenerys @cherrii-11 @trishiepo0 @shewki @violetraccoon-4 @2elusional @jealousmartini @hhyukasworld @d4rlinxs @stinkinstuffle @peachesvault @onlyisaa @milky2-0 @rickydickydoodahgrimes73 @sirenitym @lillyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy @ita606 @k0z3me @d4nyjlk @chuflisworld @attackonnat @rapz-rites @qyuin @sweetlyvibe @teeesthings @alligator-person @disaster-rose @haechansbbg @119jan @minhyrin @isaidoop @mp3nai @amikkoyuzuki @imagine-all-the-imagines @anni3lop101 @kodzubaby @54fangirl @scagliedicuores-blog @wannabewolf @proburfaveblonde @lilithdarkfire @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore @lilacs15 @getting-the-pizza @amajikisbabygirl @cielito—lindo @channnee @zuwizy @buckysdoll1940 @chia369 @ssstingryyyyyyy @daughterofaphrodite @skrtskrt1 @bkghq @js-favnanadoongi @smalls-19 @nemisimp @fiselle @rayannasworld @katsukilvr @plusamina10 @ranha1tanislvr @qardasngan @k0orom1 @eclipse-0303 @pearlydays
1K notes · View notes
dykebehaviour · 19 days ago
Text
okay, so, uh… how do i put this on?
loser lesbian!ellie strapping you for the first time
cw: smut, first time strap on sex r!receiving, established relationship, top!ellie, bottom!reader, awkward but sweet.
Tumblr media
you weren’t expecting ellie to be this nervous.
scratch that, you were.
you were absolutely expecting her to be exactly this nervous.
she’s standing at the edge of your bed in a worn nasa t-shirt and boxers, holding the strap-on like it’s a piece of alien technology. it’s still in the black drawstring pouch it came in, which she has half-unzipped and is now peering into like she’s expecting it to bite her.
“i feel like this thing should come with a manual,” she mumbles, scratching the back of her neck. her ears are flushed, the tips glowing pink, and she looks anywhere but at you, despite the fact that you’re sitting in front of her, already half-naked and very ready.
you smile, biting your lip. “you watched, like, twelve youtube reviews on this, ellie.”
“yeah, well, they didn’t show this part!” she whisper-yells, motioning dramatically to the strap. “they just talked about, like, material and suction and… girth.”
that last word makes her physically recoil, like it personally offended her.
you laugh; genuine, warm, and scoot to the edge of the bed, reaching out for the harness. “here. gimme.”
she hesitates, then hands it over, still not making eye contact. “sorry. i just… i wanna do this right. i wanna make it good for you.”
your heart actually aches a little at that. she’s trying so hard. so ellie about it - awkward and earnest and somehow both endearing and annoying at the same time.
you kiss her, gentle and slow, a hand coming up to cradle her jaw. “hey. it will be good. you’re here. i’m here. and you-“ you grab the harness again, smirking. “-are about to become a total menace.”
“oh my god,” she groans, burying her face in your neck. “don’t say it like that. i can’t feel cool when you say it like that.”
“you’ve never been cool a day in your life.”
she pulls back just enough to look at you, squinting. “rude.”
“true.”
you both break into quiet laughter. the kind that fills the room in the spaces where nerves used to be.
ellie takes a deep breath, steadies herself. “okay. i’m doin’ it.”
and she does - clumsily at first, buckling it backward the first time and swearing under her breath, but eventually getting it on, adjusting the straps with all the seriousness of someone gearing up for battle. she looks down at herself once it’s on, eyes wide.
“…huh.”
you tilt your head. “you okay?”
“i don’t know. i feel like i should salute someone.”
you snort. “please don’t.”
“i feel like i should have, like, a badge. or a license.”
“ellie.”
“I HAVE THE POWER.”
you grab her hand and pull her onto the bed before she can spiral any further. “c’mere, soldier.”
the laughter dies down slowly, replaced by the kind of silence that hums with electricity. she’s looking at you now, really looking. her eyes go soft, mouth parted slightly like she’s about to say something and forgot how.
you touch her cheek. “you good?”
she nods. “yeah. yeah, i just… this is kind of a big deal, huh?”
“yeah,” you breathe. “it is.”
she kisses you again. slower this time. more deliberate. her hands are on your waist, your thigh, your hip. she moves with more purpose now, like something has clicked into place. the jokes are gone, replaced by a tenderness that makes your chest ache in a different way.
“god, you’re so-fuck, you’re soft,” she breathes, dragging her hand down your side, over your hip, between your legs. “can i?”
you nod, already breathless. “yes. please.”
she touches you first - fingers sliding slowly through wetness, testing how ready you are, and her eyes go wide.
“holy shit. that’s for me?”
“no, it’s for the pope.”
“shut up,” she laughs, and then her mouth is on your neck, your collarbone, nipping and kissing a trail lower. her hand never leaves you.
“tell me if anything feels weird, okay?” she says softly.
“ellie.”
she meets your gaze.
“i want you.”
her expression melts - turns open and overwhelmed, like she’s never been told that before, even though you say it all the time.
she lines up carefully, letting the tip brush against you first, back and forth in teasing little strokes that make you shift your hips with a whine.
“okay?” she checks again.
you nod, gripping her arm. “yes. i’m good.”
she presses in slowly. not all the way at once, just enough to make you gasp, then pause to let you adjust. her eyes are glued to your face, watching every little reaction, every twitch and breath. she’s completely focused on you, eyebrows knit like she’s trying to memorise how this feels for you, not her.
“oh my god,” she breathes when she’s fully in. “you’re so tight, holy shit-“
you moan quietly, nails digging into her bicep. she holds still for a beat, leaning down to kiss you again. it’s sloppy now, needy, less careful, her hips rocking slightly like she can’t help it.
“move,” you whisper. “please.”
that’s all it takes.
she starts a rhythm; slow at first, cautious, her hips grinding down at just the right angle. the harness presses against her pelvis, and she lets out this stunned little groan, like she’s shocked she can feel anything from it.
“is that okay?” she pants.
“so fucking good, ellie. just like that.”
her confidence builds fast. the thrusts get steadier, deeper, more sure. she adjusts your legs over her hips, one hand gripping your thigh, the other laced with yours by your head. she’s panting now, her voice wrecked.
“you’re doing so good,” you whisper, clinging to her. “so good, baby.”
her eyes flutter shut and she lets out a broken moan. “fuck, i-don’t say stuff like that, i’m gonna melt.”
“please melt. melt inside me.”
“babe-!”
you’re both laughing a little even as things intensify. her thrusts get sharper, more deliberate, each one landing perfectly, building that fire inside you until you’re arching into her, gasping, grabbing her ass to pull her closer, deeper.
“ellie-right there-”
“yeah?” she groans. “i got you, i got you.”
she presses her forehead to yours, driving into you with a steady rhythm that has you falling apart fast. your legs tremble around her, your mouth falling open, and you barely manage to choke out her name as you come, clenching around the silicone, body shaking with the force of it.
ellie slows down immediately, still kissing your face, whispering breathless praises against your skin.
“you okay?” she murmurs. “that was-fuck, that was so hot.”
you pull her down, kissing her slow and deep. “you were perfect.”
she collapses half on top of you, sweaty and glowing and so smug you could slap her.
“so…” she pants. “was i a menace?”
you laugh, threading your fingers through her damp hair.
“absolutely.”
Tumblr media
perm taglist: @yasmilks , @natsheretic , @lovemiraamira , @ellies-real-wife , @wewerewildandfluorescent , @jullsii , @eyesttokill , @dmenby3100 , @bunchogravie , @oneinameliann , @intheshadowofthestars , @pariiissssssss , @vanpalmertruther , @madsxh1022 , @rbnvrnxoxo , @firefly-ace , @alyaserrax , @silly-pigeon69 , @glassofgreenteapls , @pearlsiie , @aj0elap0l0gist , @sincerelyherz , @imsiriuslycool <3
2K notes · View notes
honeypiehotchner · 10 months ago
Text
Juno (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- one shot
Hello again! This goes from zero to 100 in two seconds flat don't @ me!! Sabrina's new album came out and reawakened something in me (everyone say thank you Sabrina) (also this is not beta'd I wrote this in a short n' sweet haze)
Summary: Aaron is working from home but what paperwork he needs to do is the absolute last thing on your mind.
Warnings: smut! 18+ only! this is so filthy! in no particular order: multiple orgasms, cockwarming, choking, brat tendencies, stoplight system, unprotected sex, breeding kink (briefly), face fucking, overstimulation
WC: like 3,400 I lost my damn mind clearly
Tumblr media
You’re not sure what’s gotten into you. Blame it on period hormones (probably) or the fact that Aaron looks absolutely delicious right now in his tight black t-shirt (most likely), but you’re going to go insane if either of you have clothes on for another five minutes. 
The problem is, Aaron is trying to focus. It’s one of his days where he works from home, an idea you gave him when you realized how easy it would be for him to do the same paperwork just from the comfort of your living room. It was a brilliant idea at first. You got to see him more, and were able to do your own thing around the house while he did his work. You got to have lunch together, and offer a genuine mental break in between his mountain of paperwork. 
Now, though, you can’t find it in you to give a single fuck about whatever needs to be signed, who needs to clear what, and what phone calls he still needs to make. 
“Honey,” you call sweetly from the kitchen. You watch him from over the island, your thoughts going all sorts of ways -- namely, deep into the gutter. “Want to break for lunch?”
You see Aaron shake his head, still typing furiously on his laptop. “It’s not even noon yet.”
“Brunch?” you try again, walking out of the kitchen. You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms over your chest in the way you know he loves because of the view it gives him of your cleavage. And you’re wearing a v-neck shirt today for that exact reason, too.
Aaron still doesn’t look up. “I’m sorry honey, maybe in an hour?”
You let out a huff that you know he hears because he finally looks up, eyebrows raised just so. It’s a look that you love. Curious, veering toward that playful annoyance that you can’t seem to go a few hours without his undivided attention. 
Which, you can, by the way. You’re more than capable. It’s just that right now, it’s a crime that his eyes have been looking at paperwork when they should be looking at you.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and there’s some hesitation in his voice. You know he’s assuming the worst. That you’re not okay mentally, and that’s why you need him to take his lunch break now or maybe for the rest of the day. He’s done it before on your darker days.
But you’re okay. You’re perfectly fine. You’d just be even better if he put the damn laptop away and put his fingers to use somewhere else.
Which is exactly why you come to a stop in front of him and reach forward, tilting his screen down and down until it closes. He lets you.
He lets you take his laptop and put it on the table beside the couch. He watches you, his fiery brown eyes taking in every second. He lets you straddle his hips, your arms circling his neck.
“I see now,” he smirks, his hands finding their rightful place on your waist and squeezing lovingly. “By ‘lunch break’ you mean…”
“Put a baby in me,” you blurt, rocking your hips against his.
He stills, his hands making you stop your movements, too. His eyes are darker now in a way you haven’t seen in a while. “What?”
“Please,” you say, leaning your forehead down onto his, trying to move your hips again. “Need you.”
“Honey, we can’t have--”
“Yes I know the semantics, Aaron,” you mutter, now annoyed and lifting your head to glare at him. He has a vasectomy, you get that. “I mean fuck me like you’re putting a baby in me.”
His hands squeeze again. “I see.”
You frown. “Don’t tease me.”
“I’m not,” he smirks, one hand leaving your waist to stroke your cheek. “You’re adorable when you’re horny.”
You roll your eyes, peeling yourself off his lap. He lets you go, albeit with a curious look. You turn and head for the bedroom.
“Where are you going?” he calls out after you, still with that damn smirk lacing his words.
“To get myself off,” you reply in a deadpan. “Since someone--”
You don’t have a chance to finish your sentence before Aaron is right behind you, hands on your hips, spinning you around to face him. That look full of fire is back again, stern this time.
“Did I say you could do that?” he says in a low tone.
“Did I ask?” you retort, backing out of his grasp and darting into the bedroom. 
Now there’s a smirk on your lips. It’s quickly approaching shit-eating grin territory, which you know will only egg Aaron on further. This little game of cat and mouse happens to be your favorite, and he knows it.
You’re barely two steps into the bedroom when Aaron is attached to your back yet again, this time wrapping his arms around your waist, locking you in.
“Color?” he whispers, his lips right at your ear, sending shivers straight down your spine.
You groan. “Green. Neon green. So green, I need you to--”
He spins you again, this time backing you into the wall and attacking your lips. Finally, you think, though you know you’re in for it now. The thought has a grin crawling up your lips, and you’re unable to stop it.
“What’s so funny, hm?” he scolds, moving his lips to your neck instead, to the exact spot he knows makes you weak in the knees. Like clockwork, he has to wrap an arm around your waist to keep you upright, your knees buckling when he bites down just so.
“Nothing,” you manage through a moan, tipping your head back onto the wall. “Shit.”
“You’re ridiculous sometimes, you know,” he says, but he’s smiling against your skin. “Can’t let me focus on work because you need me to fuck you.”
“In my defense,” you try, your hands scrambling for his shoulders, for something to ground you. “You didn’t fuck me this morning.”
“I fucked you last night,” he reminds you, as if you needed the reminder. It’s the reason you slept so soundly. “Was that not enough?”
You can’t help it; you laugh. 
He lifts his head, raising an eyebrow at you. The same question as before on his lips.
“Sorry, I thought you were joking,” you say. 
“You’re insatiable.” 
“Guilty,” you grin, grabbing his face and pulling him back in for another kiss.
You make out against the wall for too long like two teenagers behind the bleachers at school. You hook one leg around his hips, pulling him in and grinding against his obvious erection. It’s enough to have him groaning into your mouth, pressing you against the wall with renowned vigor. 
You can feel how wet you’re becoming and fuck, neither of you have even taken a single article of clothing off yet.
Aaron notices, one hand traveling south without you paying attention, too busy relishing the way he licks into your mouth, stealing your every breath. The kissing becomes increasingly sloppy when he works his hand into your leggings, under the waistband of your underwear, and into you.
“Oh my god,” your back arches against the wall, pushing his fingers deeper. He doesn’t bother with one, starting right away with two, curling them when you grind harder.
“You’re soaking my hand,” he practically growls into the next kiss, adding a third finger after only a few thrusts. Your body accepts it willingly, always ready for him. “Jesus.”
“More,” you gasp, pushing him deeper. “Aaron, more, I’m serious--” Your words break off as he scissors his fingers, making your eyes roll back instantly.
“I can feel you already,” he smirks against your cheek, pressing a kiss there, an action so sweet and gentle compared to what the rest of him is doing. “Come on, honey. You’re cumming as many times as you want.”
That makes you inch closer to the edge at a frightening speed. He says you can cum as many times as you want, but what he means is he’s going to force as many orgasms out of you as he can. Until you tell him to stop or he decides you need a break. 
The thought of being an overstimulated mess in his embrace later has you climaxing against his fingers, your head falling onto his shoulder as his movements never cease, milking every last wave out of you. 
You lift your head in search of his lips again, which he willingly gives to you, his fingers slowing to soothing strokes as you whimper into his mouth. You’ve only had one orgasm and you already feel ruined. He can tell the way you tremble against him, so he checks in once more.
“Green?” he whispers, kissing your forehead.
You nod. “Green. You?”
He smirks. “Absolutely.”
He picks you up into his arms, inelegantly tossing you onto the bed behind you. You giggle as you bounce on the mattress, tugging your shirt over your head as he does the same to his. His hands move for his belt and you practically jump to the end of the bed, swatting his hands away.
“Since when is that your job?” you frown up at him, unbuckling his belt without looking.
He laughs, petting your head gently. “So sorry, you’re right.”
“What was that?” you tease. “I don’t think I heard you.”
“Don’t push it.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” you smirk, pulling his belt out of the loops and tossing it somewhere. You don’t wait for him to reply before you unbutton his jeans, yanking them down with his boxers.
There’s just something about his dick. You hate that you love it, or maybe you don’t hate it at all. All you know is you need it in your mouth right now.
So, you do that, without any warning. Aaron thrusts forward into your mouth on pure instinct, not expecting you to wrap your lips around him so soon. You slide down the edge of the bed onto your knees, pulling him back to you by his thighs. 
You take your time, pushing his jeans and boxers down further. When you pull back for air, he steps out of them and kicks them elsewhere, returning to you quickly, knowing better than to keep you waiting. 
You swallow him down again, moaning around him in the way you know he loves. It takes all of two seconds before he gently holds the back of your head, asking silently for permission that you were already about to grant. You look up at him, batting your eyelashes as you squeeze his thigh twice. Go ahead.
The thing about Aaron fucking your face is that it took a while for him to do it as hard as you really wanted. He’s always so gentle, a quality that drew you to him initially. You love how gentle he can be. But you love it equally as much when he is rougher with you.
Like now, when he has you pinned against the bed, one hand on the back of your head as he fucks into your throat. It’s blissful, quite frankly, the way he feels, and you thank the universe every time for your lack of a gag reflex. 
He holds you there with a deep groan, and you feel him twitch in your throat once before he pulls you off entirely. You frown up at him, once again not getting what you wanted, but he doesn’t have any time for that.
He picks you up by your armpits, hauling you back onto the bed. Your leggings and underwear are gone in a single second, along with your bra. He’s crawling up your body and crowding your space before you have a second to protest that he wasn’t down your throat for near as long as you wanted him to be. 
All frustrations leave your mind the second he pushes inside of you, immediately sliding home, his hips flush against yours. 
It’s a feeling you’ve grown to love, the way he hits you so deep. Another thing it took him a while to be comfortable doing.
He’s not average sized by any means, and you’re the first to admit it made you salivate the first time you saw. The first time he fed himself into you and worried that he was hurting you, meanwhile you were clawing his back because you wanted more. It hurt for a moment, only an uncomfortable pressure because he was bigger than your vibrator, but as soon as you were used to the size of him, you wanted all of him.
He stays there, deep in you without moving for a moment, grinding against you. His lips attack yours again before he pauses to lean his forehead on yours, trying to catch his breath.
“You drive me crazy,” he says on a shaky exhale.
You wrap your legs around him, thrusting your hips up to take him a little more. His hips stutter, pushing in the way you wanted him to, the way you know you can make him do involuntarily.
“Fuck,” he bites out, turning his attention to your neck again.
You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging. “Exactly. So why aren’t you moving?”
He nips at your neck. “Because if I move, I will cum right away.”
“Who said I only want you to cum inside me once?”
He groans again, fingers digging into your hips as you circle them, though he doesn’t try to stop you. “Greedy” is all he says, but he finally moves.
The thrusts are slow at first, Aaron clearly trying to pace himself. You can’t say you’re doing the same, already chasing your second high as he slams his hips into yours. Your hand reaches down to rub your clit, but is promptly smacked away by Aaron’s hand as he glares at you.
“Since when is that your job?” he echoes you from earlier, only this time, there’s more heat to it. He grabs both of your wrists, pinning them above your head to stop any other temptation. “Not this time.”
His thrusts pick up speed and depth, his body moving against yours in the exact way that makes you fall apart. It’s not often that he doesn’t let you cum from added clit stimulation -- not that you can’t without it; it just makes the high feel that much better -- but sometimes he does. It’s an ego trip for him as much as it is for you.
It also adds an unpredictable nature to it, which is why your second orgasm takes you by such surprise. You seize against him, your hands doing all sorts of squirming to try to break free of his grasp, but he doesn’t let you, and he doesn’t let up. You don’t realize why until you feel the warmth spreading into you as he reaches his own peak. 
You’ve clearly worked him up as much as you worked yourself up because his thrusts barely slow down, and he doesn’t soften inside of you. 
Instead, he pulls out only to flip you on your side, sliding in behind you and pulling your leg up and back over his hips. The action causes some of his cum to spill out of you, but you don’t have any time to focus on that before he fucks back into you. 
You’ve ceased to have any coherent thoughts as Aaron whispers dirty nothings into your ear, one arm wrapped around your body to keep you pinned against him. The pleasure doesn’t stop and at one point, you question if your second orgasm stopped at all or if it has continued this entire time.
Aaron reaches underneath the pillow where he knows he’ll find one of your vibrators because he heard you using it this morning. No, he didn’t fuck you this morning, but you fucked yourself, and truly, at 8am, he should’ve known you’d end up like this by eleven. 
Your mind doesn’t register what the sound means until the vibrator is pressed against your clit. Your body jerks, scrambling for some grounding, your hands finding it in wrapping them around his arm. 
He switches hands on the vibrator, so one hand is free to wrap around your throat. Your eyes roll back as soon as you feel the gentle pressure, your body practically going limp against him. 
“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs directly into your ear, his thrusts slowing to deep strokes. “You’ve got a couple more in you.”
“A couple?” is all you manage to say, your hand squeezing his wrist so he knows to squeeze your throat a little more.
“Mhm,” his voice rumbles in your ear, sending goosebumps all over your body. “Is it too much?” His question is laced with just the right amount of pity that makes you shake your head against him. “I thought so,” he replies, switching the vibrator to a higher setting.
It sends you into your third orgasm instantly, squirming violently against him as he pushes into you deeper. He knows how much you love that, and loves how much you squeeze around him as he slides inside, fighting against your muscles that threaten to force him out. You’ve done it before, a mesmerized look on his face and yours when you both realized what happened. Since then, you told him you liked it more when he fought to stay inside. 
He takes the vibrator away as you calm down, his hips also pausing, keeping himself deep inside you. The pressure is soothing, and you take a moment to take a deep breath. His palm falls away from your throat, instead propping underneath your cheek.
It takes a few seconds before you feel yourself spasming around him. He chuckles against your back, pressing a kiss to your neck. “Still?”
You nod dumbly, rocking your hips again. “Yeah. I don’t know, I just-- Need more.”
“I’ve got you,” he soothes, pulling out again to roll you onto your stomach instead, one of your favorite positions.
You’re floating as you settle into the pillows, letting Aaron manhandle you wherever you need to be. You groan in your happy, blissed out state as he slides home again, draping himself over your back.
He is gentler now, knowing that’s exactly what you need at this point. The last orgasm he pulls from you is just as gentle, and he pushes deeper into you, letting you ride it out. 
He pulls your hips up and thrusts once, twice before he’s spilling into you. You didn’t realize he was that close again. The warmth is soothing this time as it spreads through you. 
Aaron leaves you only to settle behind you, spooning you once again. Your hand reaches behind you to find him, and he catches your wrist. 
“You need to rest,” he chides softly.
“I know,” you whimper. “Need you inside me.”
“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your neck as he slides in again, still half-hard, but it’s enough. You settle down as soon as the weight of him is tucked inside you again. “Better?”
“Mhm,” you sleepily nod, pushing back into him so he holds you tighter. “Do you have to go back to work?”
He chuckles against you, sighing. “No, I’m done for the day, I think,” he says. “I’ll tell them you weren’t feeling well.”
That makes you laugh. “We need a better excuse.”
“Or I need to go back to working in the office.”
You roll your eyes. “Like that’ll make a difference.”
He shakes his head, his mind remembering the same memories that you are. The many lunch hours when you went to eat with him, and ended up with your back pressed into the couch, his tie stuffed in your mouth to keep you quiet.
“Go to sleep,” he says, pulling you impossibly closer. “I’ll make us lunch when we wake up.”
“Perfect,” you smile, nuzzling into him. “Love you.”
“Love you too, honey,” he says, pressing little kisses to your neck and cheeks, wherever he can reach. “Now sleep.”
You’re already halfway there. The combination of him nestled inside of you and the post-orgasm exhaustion is enough to lull you into a restful sleep.
5K notes · View notes
wordsofwhimsy · 3 months ago
Text
ᴄᴜᴛ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ, ᴋɪꜱꜱ ʜᴀʀᴅ ʚ♡ɞ
Tumblr media
Pairing: Lenless [No Goggles]!Mark Grayson x f!Reader
Warnings: Fucking fiiiilth, smut bitches!!!
Tags: Threats of violence including self harm, absolutely toxic behavior, reader matching his freak in the worst way
Word Count: 2,814
Inspiration: “None of Ur Friends Business” – Ginuwine
Synopsis: Your dangerously unhinged not-boyfriend threatens to “take care” of the friends of yours that keep trying to pull you away from him, and you are having none of it. literally a crazy stand-off
a/n: you know i had to jump on it after this anon message!! god he’s such a damn psychopath, need that 🤪
His hands are warm—too warm—palming your waist like he owns it. The soft press of his mouth against yours is hungry but practiced, like he’s done this in his head a thousand times and tonight he’s just filling in the details.
You’re trying to stay focused. Trying not to melt into him completely. But his knee is nudged between your thighs and your hands are fisted in his shirt and—God—he smells like the night. Wind and sweat and danger.
And he feels it. The shift.
Mark pulls back just barely, his breath brushing against your lips. “What?”
You blink up at him, chest rising and falling too fast. “I… I don’t know if this is a good idea.”
He laughs—low, sharp, a little breathless. “You say that with your hands still on me.”
You pull back further, guilt blooming under your skin. “It’s not me. My friends… they don’t think I should be around you.”
Mark’s eyes flicker, and something inside them cracks. Not anger. Not surprise. Something worse. That slow, dangerous amusement he gets when he’s too far gone to care.
“Ohhh,” he says, sitting back on his heels, still straddling your legs. “Them.”
You shift, tugging the hem of your shirt down, suddenly too aware of how vulnerable you are underneath him.
“They think you’re… I don’t know, unstable,” you murmur. “That I’m not thinking straight when I’m with you.”
He tilts his head, watching you like you’re some kind of puzzle he’s already solved. “And are they wrong?” You hesitate. His grin widens. “Didn’t think so.”
“Mark…”
He leans down again, slower this time, arms caging you in as his voice drops to a whisper. “You think they know what this is? What we are?”
Your heart stutters. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your jaw. “They don’t get a say.”
“You can’t just—”
“Yes, I can.” His eyes meet yours. Calm. Controlled. Unsettling. “Because I don’t care what they think. And you don’t either, not really.”
You shake your head, but it’s weak. Your resistance is paper-thin and he knows it.
“They don’t know what it’s like when you look at me like that,” Mark mutters, voice velvet-dark, “like you want me and hate yourself for it.” You swallow hard, trying to find your footing in a conversation that’s already sinking fast.
“They’re just looking out for me,” you say, weaker than you mean to.
Mark hums, dragging his fingers up your thigh like he’s barely paying attention—which only makes it worse.
“Yeah? Then maybe they should spend less time worrying about you and more time fixing their own messes.” His tone is too casual. Too cutting.
You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He looks at you like it’s obvious. Like he’s been holding back and is just now getting bored of pretending.
“Let’s start with Lauren,” he says, like he’s choosing a weapon. “She’s real concerned about your well-being for someone who’s still sleeping with her ex behind her current boyfriend’s back.”
You freeze.
“And Maya?” He laughs under his breath. “She’s got a lot to say about how ‘toxic’ I am for a girl who gets blackout drunk just to forget she texts her therapist at 3am.”
“Mark—”
He leans in, grinning, like he’s telling you a secret. “They don’t care about you. They just don’t want you to have something they don’t have.”
You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off, voice dropping low and dangerous.
“Especially your girl Sadie.” His eyes are locked on yours now, completely still. “The way she looks at me?”
Your breath catches.
Mark's lips curve into something that’s almost a smirk, but there's something sharp underneath. “So obvious. Like she wants me to look at her the way I look at you. Like she’d lose her mind if I touched her the way I touch you.”
Your skin prickles. “You’re imagining things.”
He chuckles, and the sound is mean. “You really think I don’t notice? She doesn’t even breathe when I walk into a room. Like she’s hoping I’ll slip and touch her by accident.”
His fingers trail up your arm, slow and lazy. “But I won’t. You know why?”
You’re quiet.
He leans in, mouth just brushing your ear. “Because she’s not you.”
You shove at his chest—not hard, but sharp enough to get the message across. “You’re such an asshole.”
Mark barely moves. Just blinks, lazy and slow, like a cat watching its prey squirm.
“Yeah,” he says. “And?”
You sit up, untangling yourself from under him, heart pounding. “You don’t get to talk about them like that. They’re my friends, Mark.”
He watches you now, eyes darkening. The grin slips, just slightly.
“They’re hypocrites,” he says coolly. “They don’t like me because I don’t kiss ass and pretend I’m something I’m not. And you—” He leans in before you can react, voice low and dangerous. “—you like that about me.”
You flinch back. “You don’t know what I like.”
He scoffs. “Don’t I?”
His hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist—not hard, not painful, but firm. Controlled. You freeze.
“That little act you pull?” he says, head tilting. “Like you’re just so confused, like you don’t know if this is right?” His thumb brushes your pulse. “It’s bullshit. You keep coming back. You let me touch you. You want me here.”
Your stomach flips, anger warring with the way your skin burns under his touch.
“I want you gone,” you whisper. He laughs again, and this time it’s ugly. Sharp and disbelieving.
“No, you don’t.” He shifts closer, crowding into your space again. “You’re mad because I said what you’re too scared to admit. That your friends aren’t saints. That Sadie wants me. That deep down, you love the fact that she can’t have me.”
“Mark—”
“You want me all to yourself. And you hate that you do.”
You yank your arm back. “You’re insane.”
He smiles. There’s no denial. No apology.
“You knew that when you let me in your bed.”
You stare at him, heart pounding, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.
“You’re sick,” you whisper, voice shaking. “You think this is normal?”
Mark doesn’t even blink.
“No,” he says easily. “But I think it’s honest.”
You push at him again, harder this time. He lets you—for now. You scramble off the bed, putting distance between you like that could somehow make this safer. Make him safer.
“I’m done,” you say, trying to sound stronger than you feel. “This was a mistake.” He tilts his head, eyes tracking your every move like he’s amused by the performance.
“I really don’t like how much they distract you,” he says, tone casual—too casual. “Your friends.” You go still. Mark’s gaze sharpens. “Always in your ear. Telling you what to think. What to feel. Pulling you away from me.”
“Don’t,” you say, voice rising. “Don’t go there—”
“I’m just saying,” he cuts in, standing now, slow and unbothered. “Maybe it’d be easier if they were gone.”
Your blood turns to ice.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Mark shrugs. “Just a thought. Clean slate. No distractions. Just you and me.”
Your mouth opens—no sound comes out. You swallow, steady yourself, and find your voice. “You don’t mean that,” you whisper. “You’re just trying to scare me.”
His smile is all teeth. “Why would I want to scare you?” He starts to cross the room toward you and you instinctively step back. “I like you,” he says softly. “I don’t want to scare you. I want to protect you. And if that means getting rid of people who are bad for you…”
He trails off, as if he’s genuinely thinking it over. “…then maybe it’s not that crazy.”
“If you touch a single hair on their heads,” you hiss, “I swear to God, you will never get to touch me again.”
Mark goes still for a second, like he’s processing that, weighing it. Then he scoffs. Loud. Dismissive. Cruel. “You think you can stop me?” he says, stepping forward with that wolfish grin. “If I want you—” His voice drops an octave, sickly sweet, almost a purr. “—I’ll just take you.”
And in one motion, without flinching, without breaking eye contact, your hand shoots out to your desk. The cold metal of the scissors hits your palm.
Mark’s smile falters as you lift them up, pressing the tip against your own throat. Just hard enough to leave a mark. Just long enough to make your point.
“I will literally end it right here,” you hiss, voice shaking with fury—not fear. “Do not fuck with me.”
Silence.
Heavy. Dense.
Mark stares at you like he doesn’t even recognize you. Like you just flipped some internal switch he didn’t know existed.
His chest rises, then falls—slow. Controlled.
“…Whoa,” he breathes.
You press the blade in just slightly deeper, enough to make his jaw clench.
“I’m not your little toy,” you snap. “You don’t own me. You don’t get to hurt the people I care about just because you’re obsessed with me.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are,” you spit. “You are absolutely obsessed. And I’ve let you get away with it because you’re hot and you kiss like you invented sin, but I swear to God, Mark—”
You jab the scissors toward him now, and he flinches. The grin is gone. He’s listening.
“You pull one more psycho stunt, and I’m gone. Not just gone—I will erase myself from your life so fast, it’ll make that little broken brain of yours crack in half.”
He blinks. Then runs a hand through his hair, pacing a little like he doesn’t know whether to be angry, aroused, or in awe.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You’re out of your goddamn mind.”
You lower the scissors, your voice cool and even.
“Takes one to know one.”
Mark just stares at you. Breathing hard. Jaw clenched. That frayed little thread of control he was holding onto? It’s gone. Burned up in the fire between you.
And you—you’re still gripping the scissors. Chest rising and falling like you just ran a marathon straight through hell.
“You are,” he says finally, voice low, wrecked. “So out of your fucking mind.”
You toss the scissors onto the desk with a loud clatter.
“Guess you finally met your match.”
He takes one slow, deliberate step toward you. Then another. Eyes locked on yours like he’s looking at the only thing in the world that makes sense anymore.
“You’d really do it,” he mutters, half-laughing. “You’d die just to spite me.”
You blink once. “And you’d kill for me.”
He stops right in front of you now, inches away. His smile is wild. Reverent.
“I’d kill for you,” he echoes, voice rough and quiet, “and you’d die just to spite me.”
A beat passes. Then another.
And it snaps.
He grabs your face with both hands like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, crashing his mouth into yours with zero hesitation—hungry, desperate, possessive. Like he’s been waiting forever to kiss you like this and now he’s afraid someone might take it away.
You kiss him back just as hard.
There’s no hesitation left. No doubts. Just teeth and hands and ragged breath, both of you pulling like you’ll tear the other apart. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, fisting in your shirt like he’s anchoring himself.
You gasp into his mouth, tugging at his hair, and he groans like it’s killing him.
“I need this,” he pants against your lips. “Right now.”
You nod, forehead against his, eyes burning.
“Then take it.”
That’s all he needs.
Mark doesn’t hesitate—his mouth crashes back onto yours like gravity just stopped working and you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. One hand fists in your hair while the other slides down, grabs the back of your thigh and lifts, walking you backward like he owns the floor you’re stepping on.
You’re on the bed in seconds. Breathless. Legs parting before you can think, just to feel him there, all heat and muscle and sharp, chaotic want.
“You drive me insane,” he growls, dragging his mouth down your throat. “You threaten me with scissors and then tell me to fuck you—what the hell is wrong with you?”
Your hands claw at his shirt, yanking it up over his head.
“I learned it from you, asshole.”
He laughs—dark and low, mouth brushing your collarbone. “Guess I’m a good influence after all.”
And then he’s everywhere.
His hands are rough, impatient, sliding under your shirt, dragging it up like he can’t get to your skin fast enough. Lips on your chest, your stomach, leaving bruises he wants you to see later. Mark is marking you—no pun intended—like it’s instinct, like he needs people to know whose you are the second they see you.
Your touching him back, his skin is hot under your hands—like he’s burning from the inside out, like if you peeled him open you’d find wildfire and want. His mouth doesn’t just kiss—it consumes, dragging over your skin like he’s trying to eat the memory of your friends, your doubts, your resistance. Like he wants to own every piece of you you’ve ever tried to keep from him.
You feel his smirk when you gasp, when your legs wrap tighter around his waist, dragging him closer. You’re not even sure who started it anymore. You can’t remember who kissed who first. Just that it was inevitable.
“You like this,” he growls against your throat, lips brushing just under your jaw as his fingers trail lower, dragging over your ribs like he’s memorizing them.
You try to sound strong. You try to bite it back.
But the sound you make when his hand slides between your legs? It’s not strong. It’s needy.
Mark fucking shudders.
“Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re soaked.”
“Shut up,” you snap, flushed and breathless. He laughs, and the sound vibrates through you.
His mouth ghosts over your nipple, tongue flicking, teasing. He pulls your underwear down slow, smirking when you arch into him.
His teeth sink into your thigh, just enough to leave a mark, and he groans like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear you say that. And when he finally slides into you, it’s with a low, rough growl—like it takes everything in him not to lose it then and there.
You’re so full, so tight, so perfectly wrong for each other it makes your eyes roll back.
His hips grind deep, hard, like he’s trying to bury himself somewhere beneath your skin. He’s panting in your ear, messy and raw, fingers tangled in your hair while yours scratch down his spine hard enough to leave tracks.
He likes it. You can feel it in the way his pace stutters, the way he moans—raw and low and real.
“I could ruin you,” he gasps against your lips. “You know that?”
“You already did,” you breathe.
And that’s it. That’s when he snaps.
He grabs your thigh, hikes it higher, and slams into you with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. The headboard cracks against the wall, but neither of you care. The room is nothing. The world is nothing.
Just this.
Just him.
Just you.
Your moans turn to sobs, his name ripped from your throat like a confession. “Harder,” you whisper against his neck.
He doesn’t hold back.
Your bodies move like war and worship—teeth clashing, breath tangling, sweat slicking your skin. Every thrust is a promise and a threat.
You moan his name and he mutters, “Say it again.”
“Mark—”
“Louder.”
“Mark—”
He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You’re mine.”
You don’t disagree.
He’s everywhere.
He’s everything.
And when you cum—shaking, gasping, half-crying—he watches you like he’s witnessing something holy. Like he’s the one being touched by God.
“Mine,” he pants, grinding deeper, chasing his own release. “You’re mine, you’re fucking mine—”
And when he finishes, it’s with a broken, desperate groan, spilling into you like he’s giving you a piece of his soul and doesn’t care what you do with it.
Breathless silence.
Only the sound of your heaving chests, sweaty limbs tangled, skin burning.
Mark buries his face in your neck. His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. “…You scare the shit out of me.”
You grin weakly, fingers threading through his hair. “Good.”
-------------
Part Two - Brunch Edition!
1K notes · View notes
dreamersparacosm · 3 months ago
Text
𐙚₊˚⊹ flustered!jk and cheeky!reader 𐙚₊˚⊹
warnings ; jk losing his marbles, reader is a menace to society, oral (male recieving), car/public sex, jk is big af, he’s also a head pusher oop
prompt ; in which he takes you up on your offer.
part one!
Tumblr media
Jungkook has had better days.
He’s had better weeks, actually. Ones where his brain wasn’t halting every neuron firing each time someone said your name. Ones where he could focus on normal things, like work and video games and whatever ramen packet was closest to expiration, without flashing back to you in his car, looking like a problem and sounding like a promise.
God.
It’s been exactly six days, and you’re still living rent-free in his head like you own the place, feet up on the furniture, eating snacks in his subconscious like it’s a sleepover. It’s not even sexy anymore, it’s embarrassing. He’s replayed that moment so many times it’s starting to feel like trauma. His brain shortens it into TikTok-length flashbacks like some deranged highlight reel.
And now it’s Friday night again. Another weekend. Another group outing. And he knows you’ll be there, laughing too loud, leaning too close to other guys, dressed like sin in some crop top. He thinks he’s doing himself a massive favor by telling the boys he’s too tired to go out, that he’s better off staying home so not to ruin the mood. Yet, somehow he knows his peace will be disturbed.
Despite all of his better judgment, despite the five pep talks he’s given himself today, despite Googling “how to stop thinking about someone you can’t bone for moral reasons,” he’s caving.
All because you’re texting him again. One simple message.
You: can you give me a ride home :( <3
That’s it. That’s his villain origin story.
He shouldn’t say yes. He should say you can Uber. He should say he’s busy. He should say he’s out of town, in a coma, legally dead. But instead, he just texts back.
Jungkook : on my way.
。・:*:・゚★,。・:*:・゚☆
You slide into the passenger seat like you own it. Like you belong there. (Which you do — the man broke traffic laws to get to you.)
Your top, if it can even be called that, is doing absolutely no work. It’s sheer, shimmery, strapless, and defies the laws of physics and fabric. Your skin is warm from the bar, and you smell like perfume and trouble and something fruity with a hint of Casamigos. You’re tipsy, giggly, legs crossed like a Bond girl, and your hand lands on his shoulder like it’s nothing.
“Hi, driver,” you sing-song, smiling at him as if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. “Miss me?”
He almost drives into a parked car.
You click your seatbelt with a soft snap and stretch, lifting your arms over your head in a way that should be illegal. Your shirt rides up an inch. His sanity drops ten.
“Where to?” he asks, voice already tight.
“Wherever you wanna take me,” you hum, then glance sideways at him. “As long as there’s room for me to get on my knees.”
He actually chokes. Like physically this time. Coughs. Slams a hand against the wheel. Regains composure only to lose it again.
You grin like the Cheshire Cat.
He starts driving, but barely. His eyes are glued to the road with soldier-like discipline, hands clenched at ten and two, just like last time. Except this time he’s thinking about your mouth. And your legs. And that last damn thing you said.
Every five seconds you keep touching him. A hand on his thigh, fingers tracing his bicep. At one point you lean forward to grab a sip of his water bottle from the cupholder and your boobs brush his arm and he lets out a sound like a dying animal.
He’s going to hell. You’re sending him there personally.
“You’re quiet,” you pout, turning to face him. “Are you nervous again, Jungkookie?”
“Don’t call me that,” he mutters, adjusting the air-conditioning and absolutely not touching anything else.
“Why not?” you ask, tilting your head. “You don’t like it when I’m cute?”
“You’re never just cute,” he snaps, then freezes, realizes what he just said.
Your grin stretches slow and dangerous. “Oh?”
He exhales hard through his nose. His fingers twitch. That’s enough. Fucking enough.
He pulls over. Hard turn, sharp brake, slams the car into park like he’s punishing it. The air goes silent except for the faint hum of the engine and both of your breathing.
“You want to keep playing this game?” he asks, voice low and rough. “Fine. But you better be ready to lose.”
You blink, startled by the shift. “What..”
“You think I haven’t been thinking about it?” he interrupts. “You think I don’t know exactly what you’ve been doing every time you get in this car looking like that?”
His gaze drops to your mouth, then lower. It makes your skin erupt in heat.
“You have been nervous,” You whisper, a little breathless.
“I’ve been trying not to crash the car,” he says sharply. “Because all I do is imagine what would happen if I just pulled over. And now I have.”
Your heart’s going feral in your chest. Your thighs press together. You stare at him, stunned into silence for once in your life.
“Well,” you finally murmur, licking your lips. “Better make sure my seatbelt is on.”
He leans closer, eyes glued to yours.
“Yeah,” he says. “You’re gonna need it.”
Ay, ay captain. You do double-check to make sure your seatbelt is on.
Mostly because Jungkook is staring at you like a man on the edge and if this goes where you think it’s going, you’d like your insurance to cover it.
He hasn’t moved yet. Just sitting there, parked in the dark near some empty lot, one hand still on the steering wheel like it’s his emotional support item. He licks his lips, exhales deeply within his chest. And you can see the exact moment he loses the fight with himself.
His hand drops from the wheel. “Okay.”
You blink. “Okay?”
“I’m…” he clears his throat. “I’m saying okay.”
..Okay what? Okay you can shut up now? Okay let’s never speak of this again? Okay go ahead and ruin my life with your mouth?
You lean in slightly, your voice low and wicked. “You want me to suck you off, Jungkook?”
He nods slowly . You swear he passes away in real time when you unclick your seatbelt.
“Wait,” he says suddenly, palms up like he’s calling a timeout. “Hold on. Are we… this is really happening?”
You smile all mischievously. “Unless you want me to stop?”
He stares at you, mouth slightly open. “No! I mean… yes. I mean, wait. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. Just— God, I sound like a virgin.”
“You kinda do,” you whisper, sliding closer to the drivers seat.
“I’m not, by the way,” he says quickly, then winces. “Not that it matters. I mean, it does. But not like that. I’ve just never.. not in a car—”
You press your finger gently to his lips. “Jungkook?”
“Hmm?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
And then your hand slides up his thigh.
Somewhere, above the clouds, there is a higher power that has been praying on his come-up, he swears.
He makes a noise. An animal dying in the zoo kind of noise. His head thunks lightly against the headrest and he closes his eyes like he’s making peace with God.
Jungkook is already half hard and you haven’t even done anything yet. You watch his chest rise and fall like he’s sprinted a mile, and you swear you can see the moment his brain physically leaves his body.
“You’re so tense,” you murmur, fingers brushing higher. “Told you.”
“I’m trying so hard not to die right now,” he says, voice ragged.
You giggle, leaning over the console to kiss his jaw, slow and deliberate. “Poor baby.”
He swallows like it’s painful. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“I do.”
“And I hate it.”
“No, you don’t,” You smile against his skin.
His hands hover awkwardly, like he doesn’t know what to do with them; should he touch you? Is that allowed? Is this a trap? Will he be smited? You reach over and gently guide one of his hands to the back of your neck.
“There,” you whisper. “See? Not so hard.”
He mutters under his breath, “Speak for yourself.”
You burst out laughing, and he groans, closing his eyes tightly.
“I’m sorry,” he says, half-laughing, half-dying. “I’m trying to be smooth. But you.. God, you’re just—”
“I’m what?”
He looks at you, eyes wild. “You’re.. you. You know? Just.. every guy in our friend group wants to fuck you. ”
“Is that a compliment?” You bat your lashes at him.
“It is. It is a huge compliment. Please continue.”
He should be arrested. No, seriously. Somebody should call the police. He should be handcuffed and tossed directly into horny jail because there is no way what you’re doing right now is allowed under the laws of God or man.
Your hand is still on his thigh, lingering dangerously close to his button. Your mouth — your actual, real-life mouth — is somewhere in the vicinity of his zipper. And Jungkook is trying so hard to play it cool but his brain is firing blank slides like a broken projector.
He grips the seat. The wheel. Himself. The back of your neck like you told him to.
You’re too calm. Too confident. Like you’ve done this before. Like you know exactly what kind of damage you’re about to inflict on his very mortal soul (which is rude, honestly.)
You drag the zipper down slow. Partly for dramatic effect. Mostly because your hands are suddenly shaky (not that you’d ever admit that out loud.)
You’ve been teasing him for far too long, riding the high of his nervous little stares and fumbling responses like it’s your favorite roller coaster. And up until now? You were untouchable, confident, the seductress in the passenger seat of his car.
You drag his jeans down, take a look at his black Calvin Klein boxers that you’re a little surprised he owns. You finally get your hand past the waistband of his underwear, tugging them down painfully slow.
You pause.
Gulp.
Because, um. That’s a lot.
Not in a humble, oh he’s hard kind of way. No. You mean that is a full-blown situation. A legitimate problem. Something you should’ve been briefed on ahead of time with a PowerPoint and maybe a warning label.
You glance up at him.
He’s already flushed and pink-lipped, panting like he just ran laps. Doesn’t even realize you’ve frozen mid-mission. Poor guy probably thinks you’re being seductive. He’s looking down at you with the dazed trust of a man who has no idea you’ve just had a spiritual crisis.
The driver’s console presses up against your boobs a little more as you wiggle closer to him, taking his length in your hand. It’s big. He’s big. Why is he not more smug about this? Why is he always so shy when he’s walking around with a whole weapon under there?
You feel a full-on identity shift coming. Like you might start paying for his gas. Or offering to make him soup. Like this might change the entire dynamic, and you’re suddenly the one nervously blinking up at him.
You look back down at his cock in your hand, observing the way every vein curves, the way his pink tip is wet with precum. It’s curved slightly, and is thick enough that you’re starting to question if it’ll even fit in your mouth.
Your fingertips give him one long stroke and he shudders, which makes your stomach flip. Okay, this is fine. You’re strong. You do Pilates. You’ve read Harry Styles fanfiction.
You steady yourself, take a breath, and blink again. One last internal scream for good measure. Then you smile up at him, all soft lips and fake confidence, and whisper, “You’re lucky I like a challenge.”
You watch the words hit him like a punch to the gut. His whole body tightens; shoulders, thighs, jaw, everything. He stares down at you like you just offered him his first taste of oxygen after being underwater for weeks.
He reaches out, slow but sure, and gathers your hair into a makeshift ponytail with one trembling hand. His fingers flex at the base of your neck, and the move is so unexpectedly possessive that it sends heat curling low in your stomach.
His other hand drops to his thigh, clenched in a fist. His breathing’s all wrong, shallow and desperate. He bites his lip ring so hard you swear it might split skin, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse.
“Then take your time,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You don’t say anything to that. You just lower your mouth and give him one single, kitten-soft lick from the base of his cock to tip, your eyes locked on his the entire time. No pressure, no rhythm. Just a soft, teasing taste. His skin is slightly salty with a tinge of sweetness, also some familiar soap you’ve smelled on him before.
His hips jerk violently, a sharp moan escaping his mouth before he can even try to swallow it. His grip in your hair tightens like a reflex with a choked, “F-fuck—”
You inhale once, deep and steady, and then slide your mouth over him in one slow, devastating stroke, past your lips and over your tongue. Until your nose brushes against his pubic bone and your throat stretches to accommodate every inch.
Jungkook lets out a deep, desperate groan that vibrates from somewhere low in his chest liike he wasn’t ready. Like he thought he knew what this would be and now he’s realizing, Oh no. Oh no, no, no, I was wrong. I’m in danger.
You don’t really give him time to recover. You set a rhythm until the obscene sound of gagging fills up the car, mingling with his panting and the slick noises of your mouth.
His hips jerk like they want to move but don’t dare. He’s panting your name between gasps, muttering nonsense, sentences with no real structure. “Oh my fuck — so good, I can’t —“
You hollow your cheeks just slightly. The effect is instant and he lets out this helpless whimper, one hand gripping the headrest behind him like he’s trying not to ascend, other one knotted in your hair.
You come up for air for one brief second, spit stringing between your lips and his cock, and before he can even look at you, you’re going right back down even faster this time.
His voice pitches. “Wait, wait, slow down, I’m—”
You don’t. Because you like the way his voice sounds right now, shaky and too high, like you’ve rewired every synapse in his body. You like how big he is, how heavy in your mouth. You also like the fact that he’s so obviously been thinking about this for as long as you have.
Your mascara’s already smudging, eyes glassy, cheeks streaked with tears, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.
He’s still unraveling above you and every single moan you wring out of him feels like a prize. His hand is fisted in your hair still, this time tighter, bolder, and he’s using it to push your head down even further.
Your throat’s raw, your lungs are burning, your jaw aches and none of it matters. Because you’ve got both hands working the rest of him, twisting and stroking whatever your mouth can’t reach, and every time you swirl your tongue over his tip, he lets out a new sound that makes you wetter.
“Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop, fuck,” He begs.
And you don’t. Of course you don’t. Because you’re evil. Beautiful and focused and slightly too good at this, and now he’s seconds from becoming a cautionary tale on Reddit.
You hum around him, the vibrations dizzying his brain. “I’m gonna crash the car without even moving it if you do that again, I swear,” He moans out.
Okay. So. You’re currently giving a blowjob in the front seat of Jungkook’s sad little car, and he’s moaning like it’s the rapture.
Cool, cool, cool.
You didn’t plan this, exactly. You were just trying to be hot and flirty and maybe mess with his head a little and now here you are.
His breaths are so shaky you think he’ll need an inhaler. He’s whispering please like you’ve got divine powers, which, honestly, right now? You do.
You pop your mouth off his cock for one second, glance up, and whisper, “You still breathing, Jungkookie?”
He looks down at you like he’s in love.
Another tear slips down your cheek from the sheer force of how you’re swallowing his cock whole. You used to doodle his name in your diary. Now you’re deepthroating him in a car like it’s your full-time job. What is wrong with you (Everything. And you don’t care.)
You used to wonder what he was like underneath all that quiet nervousness. Well. Now you know. He’s like this. Loud, sweaty, so responsive, and squirming under your touch like he’s never felt anything like this in his life.
“Fuck, fuck, oh my god, you’re — shit, you’re perfect,” he gasps, eyes wide, voice cracking on every other word. “I can’t, baby, you’re gonna make me — fuck — cum.”
Baby? That’s new. That, you can work with.
You moan around him just to be cruel, and the reaction is instant: his thighs jerk, his head falls back, and he wails, hips twitching like his body’s trying to chase the high before it’s even hit. “I’m so fucking close, shit.”
You’re faring no better. You’re crying and choking and gagging and soaked between the legs and still going because the way he sounds when he falls apart? It’s addicting.
You circle your tongue once more around his tip, drag your hand faster up the base, and glance up through your wet lashes, eyes locking with his just long enough to see the moment he snaps. “Baby, I’m gonna cum, yesyesyesyes.”
His whole body seizes, abs tightening, lips parted around a strangled moan. He doesn’t even say your name, just gasps it, offers it up like a sacrifice. Warm and overwhelming, spilling past your tongue in slow pulses, you swallow his entire load. It doesn’t taste bad at all, it’s salty and warm and oddly satisfying. Tastes a little like success.
You sit up, all dainty and slow, like you didn’t just dismantle a grown man in a semi-legal parking lot. You stretch like you’re easing out of a yoga pose, then swipe your fingers across your bottom lip to wipe away the last trace of his cum. You look like you just got out of a Sephora, not off his cock.
Poor Jungkook is catatonic.He’s melted into the seat, completely slack, one hand limp against the window and the other cradling his own thigh like he needs emotional support. His chest is rising like he just ran a marathon and lost by a landslide. His dark hair is messily strewn over his eyes.
Because you’re heartless and delightful, you twist toward him and ask all cutesy: “Sooo… how long do you think it’ll take to get to my place from here?”
His head lolls in your direction. “What?”
You blink innocently. “You are still driving me home, right?”
“I-I can’t even feel my legs.”
“Not my problem,” you sing, clicking your seatbelt on again. “You said months ago I could ask you for a ride whenever, remember? That’s a verbal contract.”
He’s staring at you like you just kicked a puppy and then kissed it on the nose. “You’re… evil.”
You grin. “Flattered.”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I can’t believe I let you do that.”
“You didn’t let me,” you hum. “I begged you until you cracked.”
He groans again, louder this time. The sound vibrates through the car pathetically. His head drops against the steering wheel with a dull thud and stays there.
You glance out the windshield,“Anyway, if you take the expressway, I think we can make it to mine in like… fifteen minutes?”
“You’re insane,” He tuts against the steering wheel.
“True. But I’m also your ride-or-die now, apparently.”
He lifts his head with effort. Looks at you with the wide, shellshocked eyes of a man who knows he’ll never recover from this.
You smile at him sweetly, reaching over to squeeze his thigh again. He flinches at the comtact.
You bite your lip. “Still sensitive?”
“Don’t touch me,” he pleads, voice high and fragile.
You giggle like the monster you are. “Alright, alright,” you say, settling back in your seat as any law-abiding citizen. “Let’s go. Home sweet home.”
He starts the car with shaking hands. And as he pulls back onto the road, vision blurry, soul permanently altered he swears to himself he will never respond to your texts past midnight again.
(But he will.)
。・:*:・゚★,。・:*:・゚☆
note ; ok…. so this is no longer a blurb, i fear. i feel like this needs a title now but i also have no desire bc then it’ll be a thing. and i cannot have it be a thing bc i have 2039339 wip’s. but also them. jk spiraling over this blowjob, the friend group going crazy over it.. why is it giving toxic situationship with you not ready to commit and him being a mess? literally remove the pen from my hand. anyways this is all your guys’ fault (and also mine bc this is inspired by how my ex from 4 years ago and i started dating)
masterlist + request
1K notes · View notes
checkeredflagggs · 4 months ago
Text
Secret Sweethearts
Pairing: pierre gasly x leclerc!reader
summary: las vegas was a lot more exciting then people think
a/n: my first pierre piece! This was requested so I hope you guys like it!!
a/n2: I love Kika but she had to go 😭😭
a/n3: Vegas is the race that keeps on giving
Masterlist | Taglist
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Bluesky
Tumblr media
user1: no no no you’re on to something
user2: thank god someone else noticed this! I thought for sure after he and Kika split he’d have a couple more months of wild parties…
↳user3: same! Instead he had like a month of pr problems then it went all silent…
↳user2: I don’t know what I miss most — Kika’s Pierre or Party Pierre…
↳user3: hmmm I’m gonna go party pierre cause he lost his T-shirt consistently
↳user2: good point good point
user4: is this a safe place? Can I say something?
↳user5: nope!
↳user6: do it anyway!
↳user4: ummm fuck you both??
↳user6: what did I do!?
user7: user4 was your thought the fact that the after party of George’s race win and Max’s WDC win in Vegas was the last of Pierre’s wild days?
↳user4: it absolutely was
↳user8: ok grandmas. Let’s get you back to your beds
↳user9: no no no let them cook
user10: ok but let’s say user4 and user7 are right?? Bets on the reason why?
↳user11: I’m guessing that he got his socials taken away — can’t have too bad of an image…
↳user12: I mean it’s Vegas…I’m guessing he got married
↳user13: A VEGAS WEDDING?
↳user14: not who I thought would have a Vegas wedding…
↳user13: right?? I always had money on Lando or Charles…
↳user14: same!
↳user11: ok but we don’t know that’s the reason why he changed!
↳user13: let’s be real this makes more sense…
↳user12: it does! If he had his socials taken away for pr, we probably would have seen him on other drivers posts but it’s been a near complete blackout since Vegas!
Private Messages, the Gasly’s and their mothers
Tumblr media
Private Messages, y/n and Pascale
Tumblr media
y/n_leclerc
Tumblr media
liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, lorenzotl, and 193,102 others
tagged: charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, lorenzotl, pascale.leclerc
y/n_leclerc: Christmas time! Featuring the best ugly Christmas sweaters you’ve ever seen! Mine won — both the worst sweater and the itchiest!
view all comments
user15: ugly sweater or not, you’re still the prettiest!
user16: oh to be y/n leclerc…
maxverstappen1: so how many of those presents are yours?
↳y/n_leclerc: I don’t know what you mean…
↳charles_leclerc: I don’t like your tone…
↳arthur_leclerc: nearly all of them…
↳charles_leclerc: arthur!
↳y/n_leclerc: 🥺
↳arthur_leclerc: as it should be! liked by charles_leclerc, lorenzotl, pascale.leclerc, pierregasly
pierregasly: Joyeux Noel!
↳y/n_leclerc: Merci Pierre!
carlossainz55: Feliz Navidad!
↳y/n_leclerc: Merci!
oscarpiastri: Merry Christmas
↳y/n_leclerc: thank you nephew!
↳oscarpiastri: I am 3 years older than you…
↳y/n_leclerc: and yet…
Private Messages, Pascale and y/n
Tumblr media
y/n_leclerc
Tumblr media
liked by user, pierregasly, maxverstappen1, and 824,294 others
y/n_leclerc: just some quiet days spent with you, my love 🩷
view all comments
charles_leclerc: What is this?
charles_leclerc: Who is this?
charles_leclerc: What is happening?
charles_leclerc: Answer your phone y/n!
↳user17: oh you know it’s a serious thing when he comments multiple times AND uses correct punctuation and capitalization…
user18: is this y/n leclerc…soft launching…a boyfriend??
↳charles_leclerc: Non!
↳arthur_leclerc: she hasn’t introduced him to us yet so he doesn’t exist and isn’t dating our baby sister!
↳user18: that is absolutely not how it works btw
↳charles_leclerc: yes it is
↳charles_leclerc: Also y/n_leclerc answer your phone!
user19: ok I know what everyone is gonna think but if I may…
↳user20: no. I refuse to believe you again!
↳charles_leclerc: What?
↳user20: don’t listen to her she’s a conspiracy theorist
↳user19: who has frequently been right!
↳charles_leclerc: What do you know?
↳user19: know? Nothing actually liked by y/n_leclerc
arthur_leclerc: Belle petit sœur, qui est cet homme et pourquoi vous impose-t-il les mains? Beautiful little sister, who is that man and why is he laying hands on you?
↳y/n_leclerc: ☺️☺️
↳arthur_leclerc: THATS NOT GONNA WORK THIS TIME!! WHO IS HE??
↳y/n_leclerc: 🥺🥺 why are you yelling at me?
↳charles_leclerc: Arthur stop yelling at y/n! And y/n, ma belle petit sœur, please answer me — who is that man?
pierregasly: little Leclerc has a man now?
↳charles_leclerc: No!
↳y/n_leclerc: yes 🥰🥰
↳pierregasly: he treat you well?
↳charles_leclerc: He doesn’t exist!
↳y/n_leclerc: Pierre, he does…
↳charles_leclerc: …Not! Exist!
user21: I did not have baby Leclerc giving her brothers heart attacks on my bingo card for this year?
↳user22: right? I thought it was going to be the car…
↳user21: oh big same
oscarpiastri: congratulations y/n!
↳charles_leclerc: NON!
↳y/n_leclerc: thanks nephew
↳charles_leclerc: Answer you’re phone please y/n!
user23: ok but does the pink heart mean anything?
↳user24: it absolutely has too… she’s a Ferrari girl to her core, it’s been red her entire life. To switch now?
Bluesky
Tumblr media
user25: I’d say you’re crazy and to tell me more!
↳user26: well we know that the Las Vegas GP after party was Pierre’s last public party
↳user27: he has been suspiciously quiet lately
↳user26: right?
user28: wait was y/n in Vegas? I didn’t think she traveled too much for the races?
↳user29: she was! Charles mentioned it during one of the interviews — she just turned 21 and wanted to celebrate in Vegas
↳user30: ok that’s so girlboss slay of her?
↳user29: I guess?? I’m too old to know what those words mean
user31: so we know that Pierre and y/n were in the same city (known for its drunk marriages), Pierre dnfed pretty early on in the race…
↳user32: what are we thinking? That she slipped away from Ferrari to alpine?
↳user31: I mean I would? Better to hang out with someone I know to finish watching the race…
user33: I think it was Alex or Lando? Who posted that there was going to be a big after party — to celebrate both George’s race win and Max’s WDC win
↳user34: it was Alex! And he was also the one that had photos of Pierre cuddling up with some girl
↳user35: Charles posted a picture of the view from his hotel room very early in the night — everyone kinda took it to mean he left the party early cause he was mad at the race
user36: so we have them in the same location, more than likely at the same party, almost certainly with Charles leaving early…
↳user37: in a city known for drunken decisions?
secretly/n: wow you guys are through
user38: ok but what’s the evidence after Vegas? Like divorce exists…
↳user39: vibes mostly…
↳user40: and the pink heart!
↳user38: vibes and a pink heart??
↳user39: the pink heart! She’s always used a red heart (Ferrari forever!!) but when she finally soft launches a man it’s with a pink heart?? Pink like alpine??
f1gossip
Tumblr media
liked by user, user, secretly/n and 824,193 others
tagged: y/n_leclerc, pierregasly
f1gossip: with the increased interest in Pierre’s newly quiet public life and the subject of y/n’s soft launch, here comes another twist! Recent pictures from Pierre’s social show the newest Gasly, Simba — while y/n’s latest story has an identical pup getting cozy with her! Could this be the confirmation we’ve all been waiting for?
view all comments
user41: awwwweeee 🥹🥹🥹 shared custody
↳user42: ok but Pierre got simba right after Vegas right?
↳user41: …oh my god you’re right!! They got a dog together!!!
↳user42: they got a dog together 🤗🤗
user43: I’m going to laugh when it’s revealed that they aren’t together…
↳user44: I’m gonna laugh when you release you’re wrong!
user49: ok but simba and the helmets is so adorable ☺️
↳user50: yes!
user51: I don’t know who I’m more jealous of…Pierre, y/n, or simba…
↳user52: it’s a big choice…
secretly/n: damn you guys are fast to put the pieces together…
pierregasly has posted a story, y/n_leclerc has posted a story
Tumblr media
[dinner date][my valentine 🩷]
user54 replied proof of relationship!
user55 replied exactly what we’ve been waiting for!
user56 replied are you with y/n right now??
y/n_leclerc replied looking good…and the pizza looks delicious too
↳pierregasly 😆
↳pierregasly right back at you, jolie fille
↳y/n_leclerc 😘💋🩷🩷
charles_leclerc replied ohh? A new love?
↳pierregasly something like that yes…
↳charles_leclerc and you haven’t said a word *smh*
↳pierregasly not yet
user57 replied IS THAT PIERRE
user58 replied omg its happening!!
user59 replied YOURE MATCHING WITH PIERRE YES!!
charles_leclerc replied what’s happening right now? Are you at Pierre’s??
↳y/n_leclerc oh my god leave me alone!
↳y/n_leclerc I’m with my MAN
↳charles_leclerc who doesn’t exist!!
↳y/n_leclerc that’s what you think!
Private Messages, Charles and y/n
Tumblr media
Private Messages, Pierre and y/n
Tumblr media
y/n_leclerc
Tumblr media
liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri, pierregasly, and 2,183,193 others
tagged: charles_leclerc, lewishamilton, pierregasly, jackdoohan, maxverstappen1, alex_albon, liamlawson30, yukitsunoda0511, isackhadjar
y/n_leclerc: got to go to this cool event, met some weird people, and crashed a redbull family reunion
view all comments
user60: oh god that is pretty much the redbull family isn’t it??
↳user61: so much trauma all in one photo…
pierregasly: weird people??
↳y/n_leclerc: yes! where did all your hair go???
↳user62: she’s speaking for all of us!
oscarpiastri: I see how it is…you spend a couple of hours with your aunt and she doesn’t even acknowledge you…
↳y/n_leclerc: I’m so sorry dearest nephew. How ever could you forgive me?
↳oscarpiastri: I could do with some dog cuddles?
↳y/n_leclerc: sure!
↳charles_leclerc: stop giving away leo!
↳y/n_leclerc: leo?
↳y/n_leclerc: no! I’ll not be doing that
↳user62: she forgot about her nephew Leo and was offering time with simba… liked by secretly/n
alex_albon: A redbull family photo and yet Charles is right in the middle…
↳y/n_leclerc: come on we all know he and max are attached at the hip
↳alex_albon: true true
↳maxverstappen1: what are you talking about?
↳y/n_leclerc: don’t worry about it Yapstappen liked by alex_albon, charles_leclerc
user63: ok girl we see you posting the brother and the boyfriend
↳charles_leclerc: Wait what?? What are you talking about? Who???
↳y/n_leclerc: apparently no one because “he doesn’t exist”
↳charles_leclerc: good you’re learning
↳y/n_leclerc: how do I dislike a post
user64: ok but did anyone else catch the looks those 2 were sharing??
↳user65: no! They were legit gazing into each others eyes the entire night
↳user66: are we talking y/n and her man or Charles and his?
↳user65: yes
y/n_leclerc
Tumblr media
liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, maxverstappen1, and 829,103 others
tagged: pierregasly
y/n_leclerc: posting my man while Charles is still busy
view all comments
user67: A HARD LAUNCH?? IN THE MIDDLE OF MY DAY??
user68: good lord what is happening right??
pierregasly: Je t'aime aussi, belle fille. I love you too, beautiful girl
↳y/n_leclerc: Vous êtes de loin la meilleure décision que j'aie jamais prise. You are by far the best decision I ever made
maxverstappen1: he’s gonna go ballistic
↳y/n_leclerc: haha yeah
↳maxverstappen1: you’re a chaotic little thing aren’t you…
↳y/n_leclerc: 🤣🤣
oscarpiastri: Hello. What is this?
↳y/n_leclerc: I believe the youths call it a hard launch?
↳user69: girl you are one of the youths
charles_leclerc: WHAT KS THIS?!?
charles_leclerc: ABSOLUTELY NOT
f1gossip
Tumblr media
liked by user1, user2 and 790,469 others
tagged: charles_leclerc, pierregasly
f1gossip: Charles before he saw his sisters post and Charles after her saw his sister post during pre-season testing here in Bahrain
view all comments
user70: you could see the rage grow on his face…
↳user71: oh man could you…I could feel it from here and I’m not even in the same hemisphere
user72: he went through all 5 stages of grief, invented a few new ones, then settled on pure rage
user73: I’m so glad Pierre wasn’t on the track at the same time as Charles…
↳user74: right?
↳user75: I’m sure Pierre is feeling the same
Private Messages, the Leclerc Siblings
Tumblr media
Private Messages, Pierre and Charles
Tumblr media
f1gossip
Tumblr media
liked by user, user, user, and 2,824,348 others
tagged: pierregasly, y/n_gasly
f1gossip: things got heated today during the Australian press conference where Pierre defended his WIFE??
view all comments
user76: I’m so…WHAT
↳user77: speaking for all of us right now…
user78: that interviewer was out of line
↳user79: he’s so lucky that Charles wasn’t there…
↳user80: ok but did you see Max and Oscar? Cause they looked like they wanted to hunt him for sport too
user81: that type of language has no use in today’s questions
↳user82: I’m with the drivers — how fucking dare that sexist piece of shit ask Pierre those questions???
↳user83: if anyone of them had kept at the man I wouldn’t have said anything
↳user84: he had it coming
user85: ok but are we all skipping over the fact THAT PIERRE AND Y/N GOT MARRIED???
↳y/n_gasly: that’s old news I’m afraid
↳user86: Wait? What? Why? When?
↳y/n_gasly: Marriage. Because I love him. Las Vegas!
↳user86: you changed your handle!
user87: this gonna go down in the history books — where were you when you found out that y/n is now a gasly…
↳charles_leclerc: SHES A WHAT NOW??
↳user87: you didn’t know yet?
↳charles_leclerc: KNOW WHAT??
↳user87: man I hate to burst your bubble…
↳charles_leclerc: 😤🤬
Private Messages, the Leclercs and the Gaslys
Tumblr media
f1 posted a story, y/n_gasly posted a story
Tumblr media
[All’s well now!][My husband and I 🩷]
user88 replied awww the in-laws getting along…
user89 replied my pookies
y/n_gasly replied I better not have to fight my brother for my husband now…
↳f1 we can make no promises…
user90 replied we love to see this!
charles_leclerc replied only temporarily…
pierregasly replied I love you, Lumière de ma vie
↳y/n_gasly I love you too, mon œuf
↳pierregasly 🙄🙄
charles_leclerc replied ABSOLUTELY NOT
arthur_leclerc replied TELL HIM TO GET HIS HANDS OFF YOU
lorenzotl replied how much are they yelling at you?
↳y/n_gasly ehhh I’m mostly ignoring my phone right now 😂😂
↳y/n_gasly they’ll get over it…eventually
Taglist
@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @coral7161 @lost4lyrics @mastermindbaby @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @nichmeddar @mxm47max @justaf1girl @a-beaverhausen @tallrock35 @elizamoe133 @imlonelydontsendhelp @jessica3478 @il0vereadingstuff @taylorrrrrrrrrrswiftttt @widow-cevans @1-of-my-many-obsessions @charlesgirl16 @elliegray2803 @anunstablefangirl
1K notes · View notes
gay-dorito-dust · 4 months ago
Text
What’s better than a man that’s built like a brick shit house? A man who can easily switch your brain off, as though you don’t have to no longer overthink everything when they are there to take the unnecessary weight off of your shoulders. Someone who makes you feel as though everything was already put together for you, crafted and moulded so that you didn’t have a single ounce of time to worry about anything that could go wrong, mainly because they’ve dealt with it before you could recognise it.
Someone who makes you feel safe, protected, feel as though you don’t have to constantly look over your shoulder 24/7 because they are there right beside you; side eyeing every dodgy person they come across with every intention of beating the piss out of them should they even glance in your direction. Someone who knows the sidewalk rule and doesn’t allow you to even dare change sides with him, always keeping you closest to the buildings as he glances in the widows of the parked cars out of instinct to make sure you were being followed.
He’s a teddy bear to you but an overprotective monster towards others, they’ll pout and nuzzle their faces into your necks, whining about how you don’t let them do absolutely everything for you, or how they just want you to take it easy in life and let him be the heavy lifter and do everything for you. You aren’t allowed to move an inch from bed because he’s holding you down with his body weight alone, it’s suffocating but it’s comforting and grounding to the point you encourage him to do so an unhealthy amount.
He gets offended when you don’t ask for help and encourages you to ask him to help with you ANYTHING! They will drop everything for you because you matter most to them. So please just ask them, they’re begging at this point to tie your shoes, straighten the collars of your shirts, or even applying your chap/lip balm for you with eagerness and determination it makes you laugh.
Yet to others he’s gruff, unhinged, antisocial and will make it known that they don’t like staying out longer then they have to when you’re at home waiting for them with cuddles and self care routines to do. (Yes he wears the cat hair band because you say he looks handsome. You’re his soft spot, his secret strength and more)
He doesn’t care if he’s beaten and bloodied, if you’re calling his name so sweetly then he’ll always find himself walking off broken bones and severe lacerations, all just to come home to you as if he isn’t on deaths door or suffering from blurry vision because in his eyes you’re the clearest thing he’s ever seen his entire life, for you are his entire life.
- Jason Todd (red hood), Frank Castle (punisher)
2K notes · View notes
shigarakisstalker · 6 months ago
Text
hardcore launches with the boys
in which neither of you take a… soft approach, to announcing your secret relationship
Tumblr media
todoroki didn’t expect for it to go the way it did. it was a normal training day when suddenly he turned only to see you straight on your back, air knocked out of you from the move bakugo had just pulled on you. he lost his shit.
suddenly there he was, right next to you as bakugo found himself as a human ice cube. he gently pulled you up and dusted you off.
“you okay, love?” he gently placed his hand on your cheek.
“shoto, while i appreciate the gesture,” you slowly pushed his hand down, “we’re in training and it’s bound to happen. you can’t ice anyone just because they’re doing their assignment.”
“i know, but i dont care. you’re my girlfriend nobody has the right.” he simply shrugged.
a few gasps were heard, they turned their heads to find an unintended audience. the entire class.
“you’re together?!” everyone yelled.
“HALF AND HALF BASTARD!”
◡̈
bakugo wasn’t exactly discrete, especially when it was agreed you guys weren’t going to hide it anymore. it was a nice sunday morning when he came down,
only to see you wearing his favorite shirt and sweatpants that had been missing for days.
there you sat next to mina and tsu, they took took notice of the shirt but decided not to say anything.
that was until mina couldn’t hold it anymore, “aren’t those bakugos clothes?” you looked down, taking notice that you forgot to change before coming down, “uhhh-”
“yeah, aren’t those my fucking clothes?” you heard from behind you. you jumped up and darted for an escape, only to be grabbed by the hips and pinned to his front.
“you know i’ve been looking for my shit for days now, right?” he whispered in your ear.
you wordlessly shook your head, words gone and heart beating a million times a second. he knew exactly how to get a rise out of you.
your cheeks flushed as he turned you around to face him, before he could see your face you quickly shoved your face in his chest.
he chuckled, “you’re so fucking lucky you’re pretty.”
“EEEEKKKK!” they both looked over to see mina and both squads starring at them with wide eyes, “YOU GUYS ARE DATING?!”
◡̈
sero would do it in a funny way, you’d be arguing about some stupid shit in the common room. you, mina, and jirou would be ripping their asses for doing some dumb shit.
the girls were too heated to even realize you were yelling at sero, except for kaminari and kirishima.
they looked at you both strangely, which caught the attention of the girls. and shortly enough it was only you yelling at sero.
“you’re so fucking dumb! i swear you give me a headache every single goddamn day, yet i-” you were soon cut off by lips touching yours gently, all anger seemed to diminish and your brain went fuzzy.
when you both pulled away his hands still remained on your face, “y’know you’re so pretty when you’re angry?
“oh my god?!”
◡̈
denki would find it fun to mess with everyone, he’d go on and on about this mystery girlfriend.
“she’s soooo pretty”
“i want her so bad right now”
“she thinks i’m funny”
“guys where should i take her for dinner?” he whispered, hoping not to attract your attention from the girls.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP DUNCE FACE WE KNOW SHES NOT REAL!” bakugo screamed, getting everyone’s attention.
“YES SHE IS!” denki yelled back.
“THEN WHO WHOM?” he paused, “HM?”
“me.”
everyone snapped their head towards you, full of shock.
you lazily walked over to him and wrapped your arms around his neck from behind, laying a small kiss on his cheek.
“WHAT?!”
◡̈
kirishima would do it completely on accident while admirning you.
everyone was stuck on their own task of the day, beating their opponents ass.
you specifically were never one to back down, something kirishima absolutely adored about you. you were a hardass and stubborn as a mule, sometimes biting him in the ass.
you were now going up against mina, and odds weren’t in her favor, bless her soul. you were a tough girl. and as of right now you had her in a chokehold on the ground.
kirishima stood there in awe.
not because his friend was getting her ass beat, but because his girlfriend was so, manly.
“damn, that’s my girlfriend.”
everyone snapped their heads to him,
“what.”
◡̈
midoryia wasn’t very sneaky about it in the first place.
so when the class woke up one sunday and found you two cuddling on the couch after a failed movie night, it really was no surprise.
instead of being abrupt and waking you guys up (like bakugo offered) they layer a blanket on the top of you two. nicely and gently.
“they’re a cute couple.” tsu commented.
“oh for sure,” sato started, “they’re both hard working and very very sweet.”
“this is unacceptable on school property though-”
a joint “shut up iida” ensued.
2K notes · View notes
goldsainz · 7 months ago
Text
# DREW STARKEY — ACTORS ON ACTORS !
Tumblr media
MASTERLIST !
001. SUMMARY !
✯ drew and you participate in variety’s “actors on actors” series.
002. WARNINGS !
✯ cursing, talking about nude scenes, probably inaccurate acting experiences.
003. NOTE !
✯ sorry to all the actors i stole roles from😭 also zendaya is used as a face claim for the social media but the writing is inclusive and has no descriptors of physical appearance… or at least i hope so.
word count : 5,4k (chat i got carried away)
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
The cozy studio was bathed in warm light, designed almost as if to feel like a welcoming living room. Two plush chairs faced each other, separated by a low coffee table adorned with a few carefully placed books and a small vase of fresh flowers. Everything about the space was crafted to exude intimacy and warmth, inviting open conversation.
Drew Starkey entered the room first, his usual calm confidence mingled with a tinge of nervous energy. He smoothed his shirt absentmindedly and scanned the setup, trying to ground himself in the moment. He was used to being in front of cameras, but this felt different. This wasn’t just about promoting a project or answering rapid-fire questions on a press junket. This was you.
“Hello,” Drew started, a smile gracing his features as he took in the fact that he was sitting right in front of his number one celebrity crush. His hand hovered awkwardly in a small wave, as if he couldn’t believe this was real.
“Hi,” you said back, a giggle falling past your lips when you noticed his sheepish look. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too,” he said, his voice just a little higher than usual. Drew cleared his throat, laughing at himself, which made you laugh too. “Sorry, I’m… a little nervous.”
“Oh, don’t be,” you reassured him with a warm smile. “I promise, I don’t bite.”
“Good to know.” He chuckled, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “How are you doing?”
“I’m great, thank you. What about you?”
“Pretty good, can’t complain.” A laugh bubbled out of him, and subsequently, you. The way he rubbed the back of his neck made you think he was still pinching himself that this was happening.
The cameras rolled, capturing the easy charm and immediate chemistry between the two of you. 
Drew’s grin widened as he began. “First of all, let me just say—I’m completely starstruck right now. I mean, the way you completely own every role you take on... it’s incredible.”
Your eyes widened in surprise, a bashful laugh escaping as you waved off the compliment. “Oh, stop it. You’re making me blush!”
“I’m serious,” he pressed, leaning forward slightly. “You’re like… the blueprint. If I ever get even halfway to where you are, I’ll consider myself lucky.”
“Well, now you’re just flattering me,” you said, your voice teasing but your cheeks undeniably warm. “But thank you, that’s so sweet. And honestly, you’re being way too hard on yourself. You’re incredible in Queer. You’ve got this natural charm that just lights up the screen.”
“Natural charm, huh?” He smirked, pretending to preen, which made you laugh again. “I’ll take that.”
“Good,” you replied, smiling. “You should, because it’s true.”
Drew’s gaze softened, the teasing giving way to something more earnest. “That means a lot, really. Especially coming from you. You’re like… Hollywood royalty to many.”
You tilted your head, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “To many, huh? And are you part of this many?”
Drew’s eyes widened, and he laughed, a little caught off guard. “Oh, absolutely. I’ve got a lifetime membership to the fan club.”
“Good to know,” you teased, crossing your legs and leaning back in your chair with an air of mock superiority. “I’ll have to start charging you membership fees.”
“Totally worth it,” he shot back, his grin widening.
“Well, thank you,” you said with a soft laugh, “So, we’ve both got some things in common, which I think is pretty cool.”
“Like working with Daniel Craig?” he asked.
“Yes! Honestly, I still reminisce about our time on set… he’s genuinely incredible, isn’t he?”
“He is, yeah. I found myself just admiring him and sort of forgetting I had to act too. He’s just… he’s on another level, for sure.”
“Daniel’s a master of his craft… Most of my scenes as Paloma in No Time To Die were with him, and at first I was so nervous because, like, what if I messed up in front of the Daniel Craig?” Drew let out a laugh at your words, and you couldn’t help but laugh too. “But when he noticed I was nervous he reassured me that it was all good. He’s just the best.”
“You’ve worked with so many high-profile actors.” You nod slightly at his words, as if it were the most common thing in the world. “Are you always nervous when meeting them, or was it just a Daniel thing?”
“It wasn’t just Daniel, no, but I think it depends. For example, when I did Oppenheimer with Cillian Murphy, for some reason I felt more relaxed… even though I had some nude scenes with him.”
“Nude scenes just make you connect, don’t they?” he joked, leaning back with a sly grin.
“They do, actually,” you replied, leaning into the banter. “You’d think they’d be worse, but honestly, with the amount of seriousness and concentration they take, it’s like you don’t have time to be nervous.”
“You clearly pulled it off flawlessly,” Drew said with mock solemnity. 
“You did too in Queer.” You compliment him, “I watched it a few days ago, and the chemistry you had with Daniel was just off the charts.”
Drew’s face lit up, a mix of pride and bashfulness crossing his features. “Daniel’s an amazing scene partner. He really made it easy for me to tap into everything.”
“Well, it shows,” you said. “It was such a raw and beautiful performance. I might’ve shed a tear or two.”
“Okay, now you’re just trying to make me blush,” Drew teased, pointing at you with a playful squint. “But seriously, that means a lot coming from you.”
“Hey, give credit where it’s due,” you shot back with a grin. “You’ve got this way of making everything feel so real. Like when you’re in pain, we’re in pain. When you’re in love, we’re falling right alongside you.”
“Wow,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I don’t know what to do with all these compliments. This is the best therapy session I’ve ever had.”
You laughed, crossing your legs and leaning forward slightly. “Well, I’m glad I could help. But now I’m curious—how did you prepare for a role like that? I mean, it’s so emotionally intense, no?.”
“It was a lot of journaling, a lot of talking with Luca about backstory and motivations,” Drew explained, his tone more thoughtful. “And honestly, I kind of drew from real-life experiences. Not the exact ones, obviously, but just feelings of vulnerability and… wanting to be understood.”
“That’s beautiful,” you said softly, your smile turning tender. “It’s amazing how much of ourselves we pour into these characters.”
“Exactly,” Drew agreed. “And sometimes it’s terrifying, but when it resonates with people, it feels worth it.”
“It definitely resonated with me,” you assured him. “And I’m sure with countless others too.”
“That’s really nice to hear,” he said with a soft smile.
“How was it for you to work with Luca? Because I remember it being one of the highlights of my career.”
Drew’s eyes lit up at the mention of Luca Guadagnino, and he leaned forward slightly, as if the memory itself was a magnet pulling him closer. “Oh, working with Luca was… incredible,” he said, his voice laced with awe. “He’s got this way of creating such a safe, open space on set. It’s almost like he’s not just directing—he’s inviting you into this world he’s building in his head.”
You nodded eagerly, your own memories of working with Luca bringing a nostalgic smile to your face. “I know exactly what you mean. He makes it feel like you’re collaborating on this deeply personal piece of art, rather than just executing someone else’s vision.”
“Exactly!” Drew said, gesturing animatedly. “And he has this way of pulling things out of you that you didn’t even know you had. Like, he’ll ask you one simple question, and suddenly you’re diving into this emotional rabbit hole.”
You laughed, tilting your head in agreement. “He asked me once, ‘What would this character, Maren in my case, dream about?’ and it completely changed how I approached the next scene.”
Drew’s mouth dropped open in mock surprise. “He asked me the exact same question!”
“No way!” you exclaimed, your laughter spilling out in disbelief. “I love that! It’s honestly such a deceptively simple question, but it opens up so many layers.”
“It really does,” Drew said, chuckling. “And then you’re sitting there like, ‘Okay, now I have to rethink everything I thought I knew about this character.’”
“It’s kind of genius, though,” you added. “He makes you work harder, but not in a way that feels forced. It’s like… he trusts you to figure it out, but he gives you these breadcrumbs to follow.”
“Exactly,” Drew said again, his tone growing softer. “I think that’s why his films feel so intimate, he gets the human part so right.”
You smiled, letting his words settle in the air for a moment. “I think that’s what makes working with him feel like such a privilege. It’s not just about telling a story—it’s about feeling it.”
Drew nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “And those are the moments that stick with you, you know? The ones where you felt something real, even if it was just for a moment.”
“Completely,” you agreed, your voice soft with sincerity. “Those moments are why we do this.”
For a moment, the two of you sat in companionable silence, the weight of the conversation settling in the cozy studio. Then, Drew broke the quiet with a grin. “Okay, but did Luca make you do those impromptu rehearsals at, like, the crack of dawn?”
“Oh my God, yes!” you burst out, your eyes widening. “I’d just roll out of bed with zero coffee and somehow be expected to pour my soul into a scene.”
Drew laughed, his face lighting up. “Right? It’s like, ‘Good morning, here’s your emotional breakdown for the day.’”
You laughed along with him, the shared experience adding another thread to the easy camaraderie forming between you. “But honestly, I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.”
“Same,” Drew said, his expression softening again. “For Luca? Anytime.”
“Absolutely,” you agreed, your eyes locking with his for a moment before the warmth of the studio light reminded you both that the cameras were still rolling.
Drew shifted in his seat slightly, his expression thoughtful. “You know, it’s kind of wild—hearing you talk about all these incredible experiences. You’ve been doing this for so long, and yet it’s like you’re just getting started.”
You tilted your head with a small smile. “That’s sweet of you to say. But yeah, I guess I have been in this industry for most of my life. It’s all I’ve ever really known.”
Drew’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s crazy to think about. I didn’t even consider acting until after college. You must’ve been, what, ten? Eleven?”
“Eight, actually,” you corrected with a chuckle. “My first role was in this little indie film. I was basically just the kid who ran around in the background eating ice cream, but I thought it was the coolest thing ever.”
He laughed, clearly amused. “That’s adorable. And now you’re the Hollywood It Girl. No big deal.”
You rolled your eyes playfully, your laughter light. “Oh, stop it. But yeah, it’s been a journey. Growing up on sets definitely shaped me, for better or worse. Sometimes I wonder what it would’ve been like to have a more ‘normal’ childhood.”
Drew’s smile softened. “That must’ve been such a whirlwind. I can’t even imagine starting that young. I didn’t even think about acting seriously until high school.”
“Oh, I’ve read about that!” You said, your voice lighting up. “You were all about sports growing up, right?”
“Yeah,” Drew admitted with a chuckle. “I was your typical small-town kid—baseball, basketball, you name it. I was convinced I was going to go pro in something, but clearly, that didn’t pan out.”
“Well, I think acting suits you pretty well.” 
“Thank you,” he says with a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “But yeah, the real shift happened in high school when I joined a drama class. It was all Samuel Beckett and absurdist plays, which at the time I thought was the coolest thing ever.”
You leaned forward, intrigued. “So that’s what pulled you in? Drama class?”
“Pretty much,” he said with a nod. “And then I went to Western Carolina for college. I double-majored in English and theater, thinking, ‘If this acting thing doesn’t work out, I’ll at least have a backup plan.’”
“That’s so realistic of you,” you said with a laugh. “Meanwhile, I was ten, telling anyone who’d listen that I was going to win an Oscar one day.”
“And look at you now,” Drew said, gesturing to you with an almost reverent smile. “You made it happen.”
You chuckled, a bit flustered by his admiration. “Well, not quite, just an Oscar nominee for now. But thank you. You know, I think your journey’s pretty incredible too. A double major? That’s no joke. And starting later in the game like you did… it must have felt like a slow burn, but it’s clearly paid off.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Drew said thoughtfully. “It was definitely a slower burn for me. I didn’t land my first real gig until I’d been auditioning for what felt like forever.”
“I think that makes your journey even more special,” you said, your tone sincere. “You came into it with all this life experience and maturity. It shows in your work, you know? There’s this depth to your performances that’s just… rare.”
Drew’s ears turned a little pink, and he laughed softly, glancing down at his hands. “Wow, you’re gonna make me blush over here.”
“Good,” you said with a teasing smile. “It’s only fair after all the compliments you’ve been throwing my way.”
He looked up, his grin sheepish but warm. “Touché. But seriously, hearing that from someone like you—someone who’s been at this for so long and is so insanely talented—it means a lot.”
“Well,” you replied with a playful tilt of your head, “I think it’s safe to say we’re officially mutual fans.”
Drew laughed at that, the sound easy and genuine. “I can live with that.”
The conversation shifted into more comfortable territory as the two of you shared experiences, trading stories about acting and the film industry. Drew, now feeling at ease, leaned forward with renewed interest.
“You know,” he began, a thoughtful expression crossing his face, “I've been thinking about how different TV shows and movies are, especially when it comes to the pacing and character development. Like, in a show, we have to maintain this ongoing energy for the characters over multiple seasons. But with movies, it’s a totally different vibe, right?”
You nodded, understanding immediately where he was going. “It’s definitely a huge shift. With TV, you’re given time to build on a character slowly. Every episode is another chapter, so you can explore new facets of them and keep the audience hooked for longer periods of time. But movies, they’re this intense sprint. You have to get everything across in just two hours or so, but in a way that feels just as layered and satisfying.”
Drew's eyes lit up with excitement, clearly passionate about the topic. "Exactly! You have to balance the action and suspense while still giving the characters these moments of vulnerability. Over multiple seasons, you can really let them grow and change. It's like a slow burn. But when you're doing a movie, you don’t have the luxury of that buildup. It has to be this concentrated emotional punch right from the start.”
“That’s one of the biggest challenges of film, for sure," you agreed. "In a film, every second counts. You can’t afford to waste a moment. But I think what’s also interesting is how both mediums can explore a character’s journey from different angles. TV shows can dive into their backstory in more detail, but movies... they really need to hit those emotional beats and leave an impact without dragging it out."
Drew smiled, clearly engaged in the discussion. “In TV shows you need that perfect balance of suspense, character development, and personal growth. And then, at the end of the season, you drop a huge bombshell that leaves people wanting more.”
You laughed, raising an eyebrow playfully. “Sounds like you’ve been doing some serious thinking about it. What’s the secret to keeping the audience hooked without losing the depth of your character?”
He leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “Well, I think it’s about letting the characters evolve with the story. You need to make sure the audience sees the human side of your character, even when they're in these crazy situations. It’s what keeps people invested in the long run.”
“You’ve really got the process figured out,” you said with a smile. “But you’re right—it’s a different rhythm for TV. With a movie, you get to go deep quickly, but with a show, you have to keep it dynamic and varied. And let’s not forget, you need that cliffhanger at the end to make people binge-watch the next season.”
Drew’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “You’re giving away all the secrets! Next thing you know, people will be expecting a cliffhanger every time they watch a movie."
“Well, movies and TV are both art, but they demand different approaches,” you said, “and you’re doing an amazing job balancing both. I’m honestly so excited to see where your career goes next. Both worlds are lucky to have you.”
He chuckled softly, clearly humbled. “Thanks. I think I’m just lucky to be a part of both. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be in a show that gets people talking for days?”
“Right? You’ve got Outer Banks, which has such a dedicated fanbase, and then movies like Queer that touch people in such a different way. It’s amazing to watch your versatility.”
He leaned in slightly, a playful glint in his eyes. “I’m just trying to keep up with you. Honestly, your transition from action to more emotional roles is inspiring. I hope I can pull off something even close to what you’ve done with your career.”
Your smile softened, your voice sincere. “Well, you’re already doing it, Drew. You’re already there. It’s not just about the roles—it’s about the heart you put into them. And you’ve definitely got that.”
Drew’s smile faltered for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. His gaze softened, as if he were truly reflecting on what you’d said. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms but keeping his eyes on you, his expression thoughtful.
“It's crazy, isn't it?” He began, his voice a little quieter now, “The idea of giving so much of yourself to something that feels so... intimate. But when it works, when the audience feels it too, there's nothing like it.”
“Exactly,” you agreed, your voice a little quieter now. “That's the real magic, when the audience feels like they know the characters, like they're right there with them. It’s not about the plot twists or the fancy sets—it’s about the emotions that we build and share with them.”
Drew nodded thoughtfully, his gaze drifting away for a moment before returning to you. “Speaking of emotions, I just saw your new movie, We Live In Time,” he said, his voice taking on a softer tone. “It’s one of those films that stays with you, you know? It’s raw in a way that makes you uncomfortable, but it’s also beautiful. How did you tap into that for Almut?”
Your expression softened as you thought back on the experience. We Live In Time had been a journey—a raw, almost therapeutic one. “It was an emotional rollercoaster, honestly,” you said, leaning back slightly, letting the memory settle in. “I think the hardest part was showing that moment where her whole world shifts. It was such a raw, profound type of emotion I had to channel in order to do justice to the character and her experiences.”
Drew sat back, letting the weight of the conversation settle. “I think that's what makes your career so incredible. You never just play a character. You become them. And you take us with you. Every heartbreak, every triumph, every moment of doubt... we feel it all with you. That's what makes your work so powerful.”
You met his gaze, feeling the depth of the conversation linger between you both. “It’s all about connection, right? Connecting with the character, with the audience, and with the emotions that we all share as humans. Because at the end of the day, we’re all just trying to make sense of time, love, and the moments we get.”
Drew smiled, his expression genuine and soft. “Well, you’ve definitely made sense of it for me. We Live In Time—it’s not just a movie. It’s a reminder to cherish what we have. And that, in itself, is something special.”
You smiled back, your heart full as you let the words sink in. “Thank you, Drew. That’s really sweet of you.”
You both shared a comfortable silence for a moment, before Drew broke it with a playful grin. “You know, it’s clear you’ve mastered the art of vulnerability on screen, but I can’t help but wonder—did you ever have moments on set where it was just... impossible to take things seriously?”
You laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Oh, absolutely. In fact, as a kid, it was all impossible to be serious,” you admitted, shaking your head at the memory. “I remember this one time during a scene on set when I was probably around 9 or 10. We were supposed to be doing this emotional scene, and I had to cry on cue. But instead of crying, I couldn’t stop giggling. It was a dramatic moment, and my co-star was all serious and trying to get through the scene, but I just... lost it.”
Drew raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Giggling during a dramatic scene? What happened?”
“Well, my director, bless her heart, kept trying to give me these 'serious actor' looks. She was this no-nonsense kind of woman, and she had this way of narrowing her eyes when things weren’t going well. I tried my best to hold it together, but then my co-star—who was way too good at being serious—looked at me and just gave this super intense stare, and that was it. I burst out laughing right in the middle of the take.”
Drew chuckled, shaking his head. “I can just picture that. You were probably trying to hold it together, but it must have been so hard with all that tension in the air.”
“I swear, the more I tried not to laugh, the harder it became,” you continued, grinning at the memory. “It was one of those moments where you’re like, 'Why am I even here? I can’t do this.' But somehow, I got through it. The director had to take a deep breath, and we did a few more takes. Eventually, we got it done, but I think we all were on the verge of cracking up the whole time.”
Drew let out a laugh, clearly imagining the scene. “I can’t blame you. I feel like as a kid, you have no filter. Everything feels like a joke, and it’s so hard to be serious when everyone else is trying so hard.”
“You have no idea,” you said, your voice still light. “There were so many times I’d be doing a serious scene, and I’d start thinking about something random, like a certain meme or a funny sound someone made on set—and then, bam, it was game over. I’d be holding in a laugh like my life depended on it.”
Drew smirked, leaning in a little. “I totally feel that. I mean, as an adult, I still have moments where I struggle to keep a straight face. I once had a scene where I was supposed to be super intense, but the prop guy was standing just out of frame, and he made this ridiculous face at me—completely threw me off. I couldn’t stop laughing, and it ended up taking hours to finish the scene because we kept cracking up. Honestly, I think the crew started to get annoyed with us after a while.”
“See?” you said with a grin. “It never really changes. Truthfully, the older you get, the harder it becomes to hold it in. But then you look at the footage and realize how much fun you actually had, and that makes it all worth it.”
Drew nodded thoughtfully, a playful twinkle in his eyes. “Yeah, that’s the thing. Sometimes it’s the moments you didn’t plan for that end up being the most memorable. Like when you have a laugh on set, and suddenly you feel closer to everyone, even though you’re supposed to be in character.”
“Exactly,” you said, your smile widening. “There’s something so beautiful about those unscripted moments. It reminds you that acting is, at its core, about connecting—whether that’s through laughter or the heavy stuff. And even though I had my fair share of giggling fits as a kid, I think those moments taught me just as much as the serious ones. Maybe more.”
Drew leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “It's funny how those little moments—like a laugh in the middle of a serious scene—can end up being the ones you remember the most. I think those are the ones that make the work feel real, you know?”
You smiled, your gaze distant as you reflected on the years of working on sets. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“Yeah, like those unscripted moments,” Drew added, his voice quieter now, as if the weight of the sentiment lingered in the air. “They give the performance an authenticity that you can’t get from just following the script to a tee.”
You nodded, the words hanging between you like a shared understanding. “Exactly. And as a kid, I was so focused on getting it ‘right’—on being perfect—that I missed the beauty of just being in the moment. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized how important it is to let go of the idea of perfection. It's in those mistakes, the wrong takes, the bloopers—that's where you find the truth.”
Drew's expression softened, his eyes meeting yours with a sincerity that made your chest tighten. “I think it’s key not to be afraid to show the mess, the imperfect parts of a character, because that’s what makes them human.”
A small chuckle escaped you, the warmth of the moment filling the studio. “Right? We’re all just a little bit of a mess, trying to figure it out, but that’s what makes the journey worth it. We’re constantly learning, constantly evolving, and we bring that to our work. The growth, the mistakes—it all shapes us.”
Drew nodded, his gaze shifting as if reflecting on those same ideas. “Yeah, and the growth never stops, does it? Just when you think you’ve figured it out, something new happens, and it challenges you again.”
“That's the beauty of it,” you said, your voice quieter now, the bond between you both deepening. “The challenge is what keeps it exciting, keeps you moving forward.”
Drew grinned, a playful spark lighting his eyes once more. “Well, I guess we’re both lifelong students of this thing called acting, huh?”
“Absolutely,” you said with a laugh, the lightness returning. “And just like any good student, we’ll always be learning. Who knows, maybe we'll even get better at not laughing in the middle of dramatic scenes.”
Drew let out a hearty laugh, nodding enthusiastically. “I think that’s going to take years of practice, honestly.”
You both shared a moment of genuine laughter, the warmth of your conversation filling the space around you. You leaned back into the chairs, the laughter still lingering in the air, a sense of camaraderie that made the space between you feel comfortable and open. You continued sharing stories, moving seamlessly from one experience to the next.
The conversation began to slow, the easy flow of stories fading into a comfortable silence, as you both shared an unspoken understanding. The light laughter that had filled the room now felt like a warm, lingering hum between you.
Drew shifted slightly in his chair, his gaze turning toward you with a subtle, thoughtful expression. “You know,” he began, his voice softer now, “I really hope we get to work together sometime. I think it’d be incredible. It’s the kind of thing where I can already imagine what it’d be like. Just... easy, real. Like this.”
Your heart skipped a beat at his words, but you kept your composure, offering a smile that spoke volumes. “I’d love that. If you receive a call from your manager these days… maybe I had something to do with it, so be prepared.”
The air between you both was charged, the quiet intensity of the moment not lost on either of you. There was something unspoken, something deeper that neither of you addressed outright but that seemed to hang there all the same. The connection was undeniable, yet it lingered in the silence, unspoken, but clear.
Drew finally broke the spell with a playful grin, his eyes flicking back to yours. “Oh, I’ll be ready. Can’t wait to see what magic we create together.”
You returned his smile, your heart racing ever so slightly, though you kept it hidden behind the ease of your words. “I’m sure it’ll be something incredible.”
As the interview wrapped up, there was a lingering sense of something unspoken between you both, an attraction that neither of you had to mention but was so clearly felt. The kind of connection that could only be hinted at, but would never truly fade. It was the kind of moment that would stay with both of you long after the cameras stopped rolling.
“Thank you,” you said softly as the final moments of the interview started to loom, your voice carrying a depth that reflected everything unsaid between you. “This has been amazing. Honestly, it feels like we’ve been talking for hours, and yet it still doesn’t feel like enough.”
He nodded, his expression soft but genuine. “I feel the same way. This has been one of the most honest and open conversations I’ve had in a long time.”
The crew began to pack up, signaling that the interview was at its end, but neither of you seemed in any hurry to break the moment. The usual chatter and movement around you felt distant, as if the two of you were in your own world for just a little longer.
“You know,” Drew said, his voice quieter now, a hint of sincerity threading through, “I think we make a pretty good team even just sitting here talking. Imagine what we could do with a whole script.”
Your smile softened, and you nodded, the words feeling right, but the undertone of something more—something unsaid—hung in the air. “Yeah, I think we’d be unstoppable.”
The moment stretched between you both, filled with the kind of comfortable tension that comes when you realize you’ve shared something real. Something that felt like it could turn into something more.
You both stood up, a final, lingering moment before the usual goodbye. Drew extended a hand, his gaze holding yours a beat longer than necessary.
“Take care, okay?” he said, his voice warm, like the words carried more than just a polite farewell.
You shook his hand, the warmth of his touch lingering just a moment longer than expected. “You too, Drew,” you replied, your voice soft yet carrying an undercurrent of meaning that mirrored his own.
As you turned to gather your things, you couldn’t help but glance back over your shoulder. He was still standing there, watching you with that same thoughtful expression, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. The faintest smile curved his lips, as if he were replaying the conversation in his mind.
“See you around,” he called out, the words simple but loaded with promise.
“Yeah,” you said, meeting his gaze one last time. “See you around.”
Walking away, you felt a peculiar lightness, as though something intangible had shifted, leaving you both exhilarated and curious. It wasn’t every day you met someone who made you feel seen in such a profound way, and as you left the studio, you found yourself smiling, a quiet hope blooming in your chest.
And for a fleeting second, you allowed yourself to wonder what could come next.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
3K notes · View notes
p1astr81 · 1 month ago
Note
very random but could you do one where reader is a ferrari heiress and her and oscar have a secret thing going on and they try to see each other during race weekends (with some fluff please)
This was a bit angstier than I anticipated 🙈
Tumblr media
Y/n Ferrari. A name that carried status wherever she went. A name that came with expectations.
One of those expectations being to not fraternize with the enemy. Which was easy.
Until he came along.
Sauntering into the paddock with his stupid floppy hair looking like a prince that just walked out of a Disney movie. And his ridiculous laugh that sparked humor in other people even when nothing was funny. And his chiseled face like it was crafted by michaelangelo himself.
It all started as genuine hatred between you two, kicking off after he nearly crashed Charles out.
“Touch one of my drivers again and I swear to you Piastri-“
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know the trust fund princess ran the team.”
You scoffed. “Are you the pot or the kettle?”
“What?”
“I’m calling you a hypocrite.”
But it slowly turned into a playful banter.
“Where’s the princess off to this time?” He called out to you as you passed him as he was exiting his hospitality.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, Prince Charming?”
His brows raised at the new nickname. “Calling me handsome now?”
“No you idiot. I’m making fun of your ridiculous hair.”
“What? Should I cut it then?”
“Absolutely not.” You looked horrified at the idea.
A smirk curled his lips. “Ah, so you like it then?”
“Ha! Only in your dreams would I ever like anything about you.” You didn’t let him get another word in, walking off too quickly.
And then the banter slowly turned into tension.
“That dress is going to have a lot of eyes on you.” Oscar commented, taking note of your bright red sun dress with a low v-neck.
You hummed. “Eyes like yours?”
He shrugged. “I’m just saying.”
“Saying I look good?”
Oscar shook his head. “Whatever the Ferrari princess wants.”
And the tension soon transitioned into a restrained pining.
Your paths crossed after taking the grid photos for the 2025 season. “Your hair looks… slightly more put together today than it usually does.”
He felt like an object of study under your gaze. “Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment.” He chuckled.
“I think it was.” A pause, then, “It looks good.”
Oscar froze. Then swallowed, and found his words again. “Did someone put you up to this? Charles? Lewis? Was it Ollie? Are you feeling okay?”
You laughed. A genuine laugh. “No, no one put me up to this, and yes I’m feeling okay.” You laughed again.
Fucking hell, Oscar enjoyed that sound. It made him feel like he was walking on clouds. This was dangerous. “Okay,” he started and wavered. “Thanks.” He muttered.
You took note of the blush on his cheeks, but you didn’t mention it. You sure as hell made sure to get him flustered every time you saw him, though.
And then the pining turned into… something. A situation of sorts.
You rushed into his room in the hospitality, tearing the hood off your head.
He was on you in seconds. Hands wrapped around your waist and his lips devoured yours. “Did anyone see you?” He rasped into your mouth.
“No, I don’t think so.” You confirmed in a whisper.
His hands slipped under your hoodie and he tore it over your head. He paused, caught off guard by the low-cut shirt. “God, you’re unbelievable.”
You grinned, shoving his shoulder. “Ah, c’mon charming it’s just a bit of cleavage don’t lose your head.”
He ignored your teasing, picking you up by the waist and carrying you over to the small sofa. He let you fly from his arms and you hit the cushions with a dull plop. He kissed the exposed swell of your breasts, sucking on the skin.
“Quit! Someone will see there!” You yelled in hurried whispers, and gave his head a small push.
He pulled back, gazing up at you with a dazed look in his eyes. “Good. Maybe then everyone else will stop trying to make moves on you.”
He dipped his head again, but before his lips could attack your chest-
knock, knock, knock. “Osc! Do you still have my charger?!” Lando shouted from the other side of the door.
Oscar’s eyes went wide, as did yours. You both swapped glances between each other and the door.
Say something, you mouthed.
“Uh, yeah.” He hesitated. You wanted to face palm yourself.
“Great! can I have it back?”
He looked to you in panic. You gave him a look that basically said, ‘this is your problem now’.
“Uh, yeah.” He grabbed the white cord while you did your best to hide.
He opened the door just enough to poke an arm out.
“What’s that about?” Lando asked in reference to the cracked door. “You got a girl in there or something?”
“No!” He answered far too quickly. “I’m, uh, I’m naked.” He covered.
You heard lando laugh. “Alright, mate.”
You both let out sighs of relief when the door clicked closed.
“You’re helpless under pressure if it’s not out on the track.” You shook your head.
And when he asked you out, options for a date location were very limited.
“I didn’t know where to go that we wouldn’t be seen so…” he gestured to the homemade full-course meal laid out on his dining room table.
You smiled. “I didn’t know you could cook, charming.” You took the chair he pulled out for you.
He shook his head. “That damn nickname.” He muttered, sitting across from you.
“You don’t like it? I think it suits you.”
“I know, because of my hair.”
You tilted your head at him. “Well, that is a factor.” You conceded. “But I think your pretty face lives up to the name too.”
His face flushed immediately, and he let out a nervous laugh. “Didn’t you say you’d only call me handsome in my dreams? Am I dreaming now?”
You shook your head. “Maybe you’ve hexed me.”
After that, it became official. Now both of you were concerned with not getting caught.
Singapore was scorching hot. Even inside the lobby of the Hilton as you tried to collect more towels for your room.
As you waited at the front desk, you felt a hand slide across your back. Not a lot of pressure to the touch, just… there. You jumped, ready to fight, but you gasped when you caught the eyes of the perpetrator. “Oscar! I didn’t know you were staying here!” You cheered in hushed tones, glancing around for prying eyes.
He looked just as happy to see you. “I could say the same.” He laughed. “What floor?”
“Five.” You answered.
“Two.”
You let the silence float between you. “I could-”
“Yes.” He anticipated your proposal. He had since the moment he caught you. He was just waiting for you to say it.
You smirked at his eager reply. “I’ll take my towels back to my room and I’ll see you then? Just text me your room number.”
Oscar nodded as the lady came back with three towels in her hands. You gave Oscar a small smile as you parted.
Too focused on you, he’d forgotten the reason he came down to the lobby in the first place. Awkwardly, he shuffled from the front desk and to the elevators.
Shit. His room was a mess.
He frantically threw things in his suit case and shoved stuff in the closet. Three hurried knocks landed on the door just as he zipped the suitcase closed.
“Hey,” he greeted, red in the face and slightly panting from all the running around. He waved you into the room.
Finally alone, you stand to your tip toes and place a sweet kiss on his cheek.
It wasn’t enough for him. He held your face in his hands, capturing your lips in his. It wasn’t hungry nor hurried, but a tender reminder that you belonged to each other.
“I’ve missed you so much.” You confessed with a soft exhale.
“You just saw me earlier?” He wasn’t stupid. He knows what you meant by that.
You shook your head, taking his hand and leading him to the bed. You kicked off your shoes and stepped from your leggings. You went for his suitcase and unzipped it, ignoring his protests. “I know you, Os. I know you’re not this clean.” You chuckled, gesturing to the spotless floors.
Plucking one of his shirts from his suitcase, you took off your own shirt and replaced it with his. The covers of the bed welcomed you, as did the embrace of his arms. You snuggled your head into his chest. “This. This is how I’ve missed you.”
Tumblr media
The next weekend you attended was Abu Dhabi. Safe to say, you were both having intense withdrawals.
Oscar more than you.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
You stared at the messages, guilt pricking your skin. Your sweet Oscar. Cast to the side because of your own fears.
After qualifying had long passed, you sought him out. The paddock was relatively empty by then, only the few stragglers of team personnel. Your hospitalities being right next to each other’s was certainly an advantage, one you used to its full extent. You sat outside, scouting for Oscar. You jumped up when you spotted him, quick feet making your way over before he could spot you.
When you reached him, your fingers closed around his wrist and dragged him between the buildings and around the back. There were no cameras. No people. Just solitude.
He looked drained from the day. “I’m sorry.” You blurted. “I love you. You know that, don’t you?” You took hold of his hands. “I’m just so afraid of him breaking us up.” You shook your head.
Oscar pulled you to him, wrapping his arms around you. He held your head against his chest. “Of course I know that.” He stroked your hair. Dull nails scratched your head. “Like you said, there’ll be a time.”
You pulled back enough to see his face. “I want it to be soon. Like maybe during break?” You suggested. “You’re right. I don’t want to keep living in secret.”
“What?” He panicked. “I don’t want to force you to do this if you don’t want to.”
You shook your head repeatedly. “No I want to do this.” Your eyes darted around, and then, “actually I want to do this now.”
“Wait what?”
Oscar didn’t get a response, you were already dragging him.
“No, wait. Like right now?” He panicked.
“Yes.”
Jesus, he was about to die and he only gets thirty seconds to prepare.
Hand in hand, he trailed behind you as the cool air from the Ferrari hospitality welcomed you. Your father was there, talking with Charles. He had yet to see you.
“Papa?” You called, standing in front of him.
He turned, brows furrowing when he saw Oscar. And then his eyes went wide when he saw your interlocked hands.
“I’m dating Oscar. And I’m happy. He makes me happy. And I know he’s not Italian or a Ferrari driver, but I think being with someone who makes me happy is better than both of those.” You rambled in English, ensuring Oscar would understand.
Your father looked between the two of you. The silence stretched, making Oscar more nervous by the second.
And then Charles started laughing.
“I know. Everyone has known for months. You guys aren’t as sneaky as you think you are.” Your dad spoke, clapping Oscar on the shoulder and squeezing him. “I’m just happy it was him and none of the others.” He smiled.
Oscar let out a heavy sigh of relief, earning a laugh from your dad.
597 notes · View notes
honeyandruin · 20 days ago
Note
i think with only in the dark you should write how the readers dad can see how bad her and joel are doing without each other. maybe he slowly makes up with joel but can see he’s not the same, like he’s back to a grumpy lifeless shell of himself without her, and with reader you could carry on with her low key depression and maybe she says she wants to move?? then the dad sees okay they need each other, these are all just suggestions, but i just need to see them happy and together again!! btw the smut is IMPECCABLE *chefs kiss* i rate keep all the same kind of smut
Ooooh, absolutely, yes! Thank you for loving them like I do 💚💚
Without further ado; Only in the Dark, Part Two
Tumblr media
Pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x f!Reader
Summary: You moved in. He proposed. You said yes. Now you’re getting married. It’s simple. Small. Sacred. The only thing that matters is that he’s yours—and you’re his.
Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Age gap. Established relationship. Intimate wedding. Emotional softness. Joel being the most husband. Love so intense it might make you cry.
Word count: 3.9k
A/N: This is the final scene for the one-shot “Only If You Ask.” Please read that first for all the filthy, filthy build-up. We’ve earned this softness. 🖤
━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━
You don’t realize when it starts to change.
It doesn’t happen all at once—no big speech, no dramatic line drawn in the sand. Just smaller things, quiet shifts in the way people look at you. The way your dad doesn’t stiffen anymore when Joel pulls into the driveway. The way he passes him tools now without comment. The way the world just… settles around you both.
You and Joel don’t hide anymore.
Not from your dad. Not from the town. Not from each other.
He still has rough edges, still gets gruff when the coffee’s not strong enough or when the new guy at the shop misplaces the torque wrench for the third time in a week. But it’s different now.
He smiles more.
Not big, showy grins—nothing out of character—but those small, quiet smiles. The ones that crinkle the corners of his eyes when you lean into his shoulder. The ones he gives you from across the grocery store aisle when you’re holding up two kinds of cereal like it’s the hardest decision in the world.
He touches you more, too. In public. In front of people.
Not possessively. Just… like he doesn’t have to pretend anymore. A hand on your back when you pass him the keys. Fingers brushing your wrist when he hands you a mug. A kiss to your temple before he heads into the shop in the morning—careful, always soft, but never hidden.
And your dad?
Well.
He hasn’t said anything else. Not really. But you’ve seen him laugh with Joel. Watched them stand shoulder to shoulder fixing the front steps like it didn’t take months to get there. He doesn’t linger awkwardly anymore when Joel’s around. Doesn’t avoid the room. Just nods when Joel offers to help and says thanks when he actually does.
It’s not everything. Not perfect.
But it’s more than you thought you’d get.
And now—weeks later, with the heat of summer settling thick on your skin and your heart finally starting to feel like it belongs in your chest again—you have this.
━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━
The truck’s parked off the old service trail, tucked between two overgrown pines that lean just enough to shade the clearing. The engine’s been off for over an hour. The doors still creak when you open them, the metal groaning in the heat, but you hardly notice anymore.
You’re in the bed of it now, limbs tangled in the soft fleece blanket Joel keeps behind the seat for mornings like this. There’s a small cooler tucked at your feet, beads of condensation slipping down the sides, and a half-finished beer resting against Joel’s thigh—gone warm under the sun.
You’re on your back, head pillowed against his bicep, the heat of his body seeping into yours even through the fabric of your shirt. His other hand rests on your stomach, thumb stroking lazily back and forth. Not for any reason. Just because you’re there.
The sky above is pale and cloudless, the breeze soft enough to stir your hair when it shifts, and somewhere nearby, cicadas are humming.
Everything feels still.
Your eyes are half-lidded, toes nudging the edge of the bed, when you murmur, “You think anyone else knows about this place?”
Joel doesn’t answer right away.
Just shifts slightly, the press of his thigh against yours anchoring you to the moment. He scratches his jaw and says, “Doubt it. Last time I was here, I was still listenin’ to cassette tapes.”
You snort. “God, you’re old.”
He hums low. “You like me old.”
You roll your head toward him and catch the faint twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Maybe,” you tease. “But only when you shut up.”
Joel turns his head fully. Meets your gaze.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment—just looks at you, that same unreadable expression softening with the way your eyes catch the sun. Then he shifts onto his side, carefully, and props himself up on one elbow. His hand moves from your stomach to your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye.
“Been thinkin’ ‘bout bringin’ you out here for weeks,” he says quietly.
You blink. “Yeah?”
He nods, gaze flicking across your face like he’s memorizing it. “Didn’t want to bring you out until I was sure you wouldn’t disappear after.”
Your breath catches. He says it so simply, but it hits something deep.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.
Joel leans in. Kisses you—soft, unhurried, his lips warm from the sun and tasting faintly of beer. His hand cradles your jaw, the calluses gentle against your skin. You can feel the tension bleed out of his shoulders with every second he stays there, mouth moving with yours like this—this—is the only thing tethering him to the ground.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far.
His forehead rests against yours. His breath mingles with yours. And his voice drops to something low and certain.
“Don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”
The words aren’t dramatic. Not a confession, not a performance. Just a truth spoken out loud because it deserves to be.
You slide your hand under his shirt. Let your palm settle over the beat of his heart.
“Me neither,” you say.
He kisses you again. Slower this time. With both hands in your hair, and the kind of hunger that doesn’t ask for anything more than this moment—sunlight, summer air, and the space between your bodies that finally doesn’t have to hold secrets anymore.
Later, when you drive back into town, his hand stays on your thigh the whole way.
And when your dad sees the two of you carrying groceries into the house—laughing about the broken eggs and Joel’s refusal to buy the off-brand cereal—he doesn’t say anything.
Just glances up from the porch, nods once, and holds the door open for both of you.
You kiss Joel in the kitchen after.
Not a secret kiss. Not a stolen one.
Just love. Plain and simple.
The way it always should’ve been.
━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━
It wasn’t a big decision.
There was no packed suitcase, no teary moment of crossing a threshold. No key exchanged with trembling hands.
You just… started staying.
First it was a night. Then a weekend. Then you forgot your favorite sweatshirt, and he washed it and draped it over the back of the chair like it had always been there.
Toothbrush. Hairbrush. Half your wardrobe. Your favorite pan for eggs.
You moved in piece by piece, and neither of you ever said the words out loud—but now it’s been two weeks since you’ve slept anywhere else, and this house doesn’t feel like his anymore.
It feels like yours.
And Joel—well.
Joel’s still Joel. Still grouchy in the morning when there’s no clean mugs. Still muttering under his breath when he stubs his toe on the corner of the coffee table because “somebody moved it.” Still grumbling about the windows sticking when it rains.
But he doesn’t complain when your books end up on the nightstand. Or when you leave your laundry in the dryer for three days. Or when you talk through half a movie just because you like hearing yourself guess the plot.
He just looks at you.
Soft. Steady.
Like he’s watching something sacred unfold.
━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━
It’s a slow evening.
There’s a breeze slipping through the window—barely strong enough to stir the edge of the curtain—and the record player hums somewhere in the corner, spinning something low and worn. Something old. Joel’s hand-picked, of course. You never remember the names, but you know the sound by heart now.
You’re curled up sideways on the couch, your knees folded and a paperback resting open across your thighs. Joel’s behind you—sprawled across the cushions with one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped lazily around your waist.
You’ve been reading for twenty minutes.
You haven’t turned a page in five.
His fingertips trace gentle circles against your side, low and steady, like he’s not even thinking about it. Just following the curve of your hip through the worn fabric of your sleep shorts. His palm is warm. Familiar.
You shift slightly, leaning back into him, and feel his chest rise behind you. Solid. Grounding.
“Comfortable?” He murmurs.
You hum without looking up. “Mhm.”
His thumb slides beneath the hem of your shirt, just barely.
Not suggestive. Not urgent.
Just… home.
The book starts to slip.
You let it fall onto your stomach, eyes heavy. Joel’s breath brushes the crown of your head when he leans forward to press a kiss there.
“You fallin’ asleep on me?” He asks, voice low and amused.
“No,” you lie.
He chuckles. It rumbles through his chest, into your back.
“You always say that.”
You turn your head just enough to glance back at him.
“I’m trying to read.”
Joel raises a brow. “You’ve been on the same damn page for ten minutes.”
You sigh. Dramatic. Flop the book to the side. “Fine. You win.”
He grins.
You shift again—this time rolling to fully face him. He welcomes you without hesitation, pulling you in, your head resting on his chest and your hand sliding beneath the hem of his shirt to settle against the warmth of his stomach.
It’s quiet for a long time.
The music keeps playing. The sky outside slips from gold to gray. And the house feels full in a way you never thought a place could.
Joel’s hand moves slowly up and down your spine. Gentle. Careful.
“You sleepin’ here again tonight?” He asks, like it’s still a question.
You don’t even lift your head.
“I live here, Joel.”
A pause.
Then his chest rises beneath your cheek with a deep, even breath.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “You do.”
And when he kisses the top of your head again, you feel it in every part of you.
You wake to warmth.
Not the kind that pulls you into the day—sunlight or sound or motion—but something closer. Heavier. More alive.
Joel.
Pressed along the length of your body, one arm locked around your waist, the other curled under the pillow beneath your head. His breath is slow against the nape of your neck. Deep. Steady. His chest rises and falls in rhythm with yours, the soft heat of his body wrapping around you like a blanket.
And below that—between you—you feel him.
Hard. Thick. Resting against the curve of your ass, barely contained by the thin cotton of his boxers. The edge of him fits perfectly between your legs like he was meant to be there, like you were built to feel him this way.
You don’t move at first.
Just lie there. Eyes still closed. Breathing him in.
He smells like sleep and cedar soap. Like worn flannel and skin warmed by thick blankets. There’s a soft scratch of his unshaven jaw against your shoulder, and his fingers twitch where they’ve gone slack across your stomach.
You shift—just a little.
Just enough to press your hips back into him.
Joel groans.
Low. Deep. Right in your ear.
His grip tightens reflexively. His cock twitches against you, already straining for more.
You smile, even as your breath catches.
“Joel,” you murmur, barely above a whisper.
He groans again, deeper this time, like the sound of your voice physically hurts him.
“Jesus,” he rasps, dragging his mouth across your bare shoulder. “You tryin’ to kill me?”
You hum and press your ass more deliberately into him. His hips rock without meaning to, the friction making you both suck in a breath.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you lie.
“You’re a goddamn menace,” he mutters into your skin. But he’s already moving—already sliding his hand beneath your shirt, fingertips tracing the warm curve of your belly like he needs to relearn every inch.
“Always wake up like this?” You tease.
He chuckles, low and rough. “When I’ve got you in my bed?”
He palms your breast through the thin cotton, thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp—quiet, needy—and his voice drops to a rasp.
“Yeah, sweetheart. Always.”
You roll your hips back again, and he swears under his breath—fuck, half a growl—and slips his hand down to hook your thigh over his.
The stretch opens you just enough. Your shorts ride up, barely covering anything.
His fingers trail down the inside of your leg, slow and reverent. When they finally brush over your center—light and curious—you’re already soaked.
Joel stills.
“Christ,” he whispers, like he’s been punched. “You’re so fuckin’ wet, baby.”
You whimper when he presses in. One long stroke through your folds, dragging your slick across your clit, making your whole body jolt.
He kisses your neck. Breathes you in.
“I don’t even deserve this,” he says, like a confession.
“Yes, you do.”
His hand falters.
You reach back, blindly, and curl your fingers into his thigh. Anchor yourself to him.
“I want you,” you say. “Now. Please.”
He shifts behind you, and you feel him line up—thick and already pulsing against your entrance. He ruts forward once, just enough to drag the head of his cock through your slick, and you shudder.
Then he presses in.
Slow. So fucking slow.
You moan—quiet, long—and Joel swears, burying his face in your neck as he pushes deeper. His cock stretches you inch by inch, and it’s everything. Too much and not enough at the same time. He’s thick, hot, hard as stone and shaking from holding back.
“Goddamn,” he groans. “Tight as ever. Always take me so good, baby.”
You clutch at the sheets. Your whole body arches.
He bottoms out with a guttural sound—hips flush against your ass, arms locking around you from behind like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
You can feel his heartbeat in his cock. Feel every twitch, every pulse.
He doesn’t move.
Just stays buried deep inside you. Breathing hard. Grounding himself in the wet heat of your cunt.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “I missed this.”
“You had me last night,” you breathe, smiling.
“Don’t care. Never enough.”
He pulls back slowly, his cock dragging against your walls, every inch slick and perfect. Then he thrusts back in—deep and unhurried.
You cry out. He swallows it with a kiss to your shoulder.
“Joel,” you whimper. “Please.”
“I got you,” he soothes. “Gonna take care of you, sweetheart. Just relax. Let me feel you.”
He fucks you with those slow, deliberate strokes—deep and steady, like he wants to stay inside you forever. One hand slides beneath your shirt to cup your breast again, thumb teasing your nipple until your hips jerk.
The other finds your clit.
You moan when he touches it—light, swirling circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pressure builds fast, sharp and overwhelming, your body tightening around him like a vice.
He groans against your skin.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Just like that. Love when you squeeze me like that, baby. So close already, aren’t you?”
You nod, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle locked tight.
“C’mon, sweet girl. Let go for me.”
You break.
It hits like a wave—long and slow and wrecking. Your body convulses, your cunt clenching around his cock, and Joel doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, praising you with every breath—that’s it, baby, so good for me, takin’ me so well.
You’re still trembling when he comes.
Joel groans—fuck, fuck, gonna come,—and thrusts deep, burying himself inside you as he spills. His hips jerk, cock pulsing, hands clutching you like a lifeline.
And then everything stills.
He stays there for a long moment. Just breathing. Just being inside you.
Then he presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. And another. And another.
“I love you,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You know that, right?”
You reach for his hand where it rests on your stomach.
Tangle your fingers with his.
“I know.”
He nuzzles his face into your neck. Then he says it—quiet, like it slipped out of him without thinking.
“Marry me.”
It’s not a question. Not really. Not the first time.
You freeze.
He goes still, too—like he just realized he said it aloud.
Neither of you moves for a moment. Just the sound of breathing. The slow, sleepy thump of his heart against your spine.
You twist slowly in his arms. Face him. His eyes are open now—barely, sleep-heavy—but watching you. Searching.
You stare at him for a beat.
“Say it again.”
Joel blinks. Swallows. Then brushes your hair back from your face with a hand so gentle it makes your chest ache.
“Marry me.”
You stare at him. At his face. This man. This stubborn, protective, foul-mouthed, good-hearted man who somehow snuck into your life and built a home around it.
And you don’t think. You don’t need to.
You nod.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Okay.”
Joel exhales like it breaks him. Like he’s been holding his breath for months. His eyes flutter shut for a second and then he pulls you in, one hand at the back of your head, the other clutching your hip like he thinks you might vanish.
“You sure?” he asks, voice rough. “I don’t—fuck, I ain’t got a ring. I didn’t plan it. I just… it’s been sittin’ in my chest, and I couldn’t—”
“Joel.” You press your forehead to his. “I don’t need a ring. I just need you.”
His hand cradles your jaw. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth.
“I’m yours,” he says softly.
You smile. “You always have been.”
The kitchen smells like toast and melted butter.
It’s hours later—mid-morning now—and you’re barefoot in Joel’s old flannel, standing at the stove with one hand on the frying pan and the other curled around a coffee mug he left on the counter. The sun filters in through the window above the sink, casting gold across the floorboards. Dust motes swirl in the light like they’re dancing for you.
You hum to yourself. Something quiet. Unconscious.
The pan sizzles. You flip a slice of bacon.
And then you feel it.
Joel, behind you—his arms sliding around your waist, lips brushing the spot just below your ear.
You smile.
“You didn’t have to get up,” you murmur, still focused on the pan.
“Didn’t wanna miss this.”
He sounds wrecked. Like he hasn’t quite come down from whatever that moment was. Like he still doesn’t believe you said yes.
You lean back into his chest.
He tightens his arms around you. Rests his chin on your shoulder.
“I like you in my shirt,” he mutters.
“I like me in your shirt.”
He hums. Then, more quietly—
“Gonna put a ring on you soon.”
You look at him over your shoulder. “Oh yeah?”
He nods.
“Not ‘cause I need it. Just so everyone knows you’re mine.”
You turn the burner off. Set the pan aside. Then you spin in his arms and loop your arms around his neck, standing on your toes.
“They already know, Miller.”
“Good.”
He kisses you—lazy and soft, one hand on your lower back, the other holding your face like it’s the only thing worth touching in the whole damn world.
You’re still kissing when the toast burns.
Neither of you cares.
The trees have just started to turn.
Not fully—just the edges. Hints of red and gold creeping into the green like something secret and slow. The kind of change you don’t notice until you’re standing right in the middle of it, breath caught in your throat, wondering how it happened so fast.
The wind is soft this morning. Crisp. You can smell leaves and distant smoke, the faint sweetness of apples in a bowl by the porch, and the familiar scent of cedar clinging to the flannel draped over Joel’s shoulders.
You picked this place together.
Just outside town. A clearing behind the ridge, where the pine trees break open into a little pocket of wild grass and dappled sunlight. No pews. No aisle. Just a rug thrown down beneath your boots and a few chairs for the people who matter.
There’s no music. No flowers. No white dress.
You’re in a cream sweater and worn boots, a skirt that moves when the breeze catches it. Joel’s in a clean button-down beneath his favorite jacket, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jaw freshly shaved for the first time in a week.
He looks good.
You think he always does.
But today, there’s something different in his face. Something raw.
Like he still can’t believe this is happening.
You reach for his hand. He takes it without hesitation.
His thumb runs over the inside of your wrist, soft and slow, like he’s trying to memorize the beat of your pulse. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails. A little scratch on his knuckle.
Real life, right there in his hands.
Your dad is the one standing between you.
He didn’t want to at first. Said he wasn’t sure if he could. But when Joel asked—quiet, humble, hopeful—he’d looked at you and sighed, then nodded like the choice had already been made in his chest long ago.
Now, he clears his throat. Glances down at the folded paper in his hands. Then back up.
You don’t hear the first few words.
Not really.
Because Joel is looking at you like he can’t breathe. Like he’s trying to hold it all in—every memory, every ache, every night he laid awake next to you with your name on his lips and fear in his chest.
And then it’s your turn.
You don’t have a vow written down.
Just him.
Just everything you know about his heart.
You take a breath. Let it settle low in your ribs. And then you speak—quietly, clearly, like it’s the only thing that matters.
“I don’t know what I thought love was before you. I don’t think I really knew at all. But now… it’s waking up next to you every morning and feeling like I finally made it home. It’s your laugh. Your hands. The way you show up, even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts.”
Joel’s eyes shine.
You swallow hard, but your voice doesn’t break.
“I promise to keep showing up, too. Even on the bad days. Even when it’s not easy. I’ll love you with everything I have—for every version of you, in every season we find.”
You squeeze his hand. “You’re it for me.”
Joel doesn’t speak right away.
Just looks at you like he’s never seen anything more real.
Then—low and rough and thick with everything he’s been holding inside—he says:
“I thought maybe this wasn’t in the cards for me. That someone like me doesn’t get to have somethin’ this good.”
You feel his fingers flex in yours.
“But then there was you. And I don’t—I don’t know how I lived so long without you. I ain’t proud of every part of me. But I’m proud of this. Of us.”
He lifts your hand. Presses a kiss to your knuckles.
“I’m yours,” he whispers. “Always.”
Your dad clears his throat again—sniffling this time.
“Well,” he mutters, blinking fast, “I guess you two better kiss already.”
Joel laughs. It’s soft, choked, almost broken.
Then he leans in.
And kisses you.
It’s not perfect. Not movie-pretty. His nose brushes yours. Your lips tremble. But it’s real. It’s warm. It’s everything you built in the ruins—hands in the dark, promises spoken between breaths, a love that outlived every reason it shouldn’t have.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t let go.
Just touches his forehead to yours and whispers,
“We did it, darlin’.”
And you whisper back,
“Yeah. We did.”
596 notes · View notes